


No Light (formerly known as El Tango de SanSan)

by The_Immaculate_Bastard



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional Slow Burn, F/M, Future Fic, Jealousy, Love Triangles, Older Sansa, Political Intrigue, Post-A Dream of Spring, Post-Quiet Isle, Post-Vale, Smut, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:19:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3643260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Immaculate_Bastard/pseuds/The_Immaculate_Bastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa in a role similar to that of Satine, and Sandor as a semi-Christian. Sansa, having become a player in the game of thrones, uses her sexuality as a means to an end. Sandor, her sworn shield, watches as she is drastically different from the little bird he met in all those years ago.</p><p>WARNING: This is a dark take on SanSan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sandor I

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a fanfic, so please give me feedback about OOC concerns or otherwise. All help is accepted! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, please forgive the title. The song was playing when the idea popped into my head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you just starting out on this fic, I want it to be known that this is a dark exploration of intimacy and revenge. As you continue reading, you will get an implied sense of what is going on, at which point you should proceed with your own caution. This is dark and I do not want a bunch of negative comments that end up putting a damper on the momentum of my first work of fan fiction; please give me that respect.
> 
> Furthermore, not all of the characters (you may have noted that Sansa and Sandor are the only two listed in this), themes, and potential pairings are tagged because I want readers to be surprised about the setting, background, and plot. For me, as a writer, this fic is an exercise in how to build suspense, which is why I have chosen to do this in regards to the tags. Again, please respect my authorial choices in the matter. Please consider yourself sufficiently warned.
> 
> That being said, I hope those who stay with me enjoy what they read; those who do no enjoy, you are welcome to stop reading but announcements of reader abandonment can be hurtful and disparaging to a new writer. I need time to develop a thick skin, so please be mindful of that. However, if you want me to improve (which I certainly do), I do welcome feedback about characterization, plot holes or inconsistencies, grammatical errors, shifts in tense (which I have a bad habit of doing), etc. These are examples of feedback that will help rather than hinder.
> 
> Now that the pleas for mercy and warnings have been made, carry on gentle reader. I hope you are intrigued and/or enjoy this story.

Sandor Clegane never believed in the gods. Hells, he never believed in love until she entered his life all those years ago. Luck had been a distant concept for him as well. Faith, love, luck—all had been illusive to him, perhaps even before Gregor held his face over that brazier.

Yet, for all his lack of belief, there he was lying in bed with Sansa Stark, tracing his index finger along the length of her body, watching goose-pimples rise along her skin. Her back was pressed against his chest while her bottom fit right along his lap as they lay on their sides in the bed they had shared for many moons.

Despite the various fantasies he crafted concerning him and Sansa Stark, he never expected these moments, merely consisting of them holding each other after making love, would be his favorite. It was an intimacy he never knew existed until she had asked him to come into her bed.

She let out a breath as his finger stroked her thigh. He realized a few weeks ago that she responded when ever he stroked the side of her thighs. Even with all the whores he had in King's Landing, he had not fully explored the different parts on the body where women liked to be touched. He slowed his movements absentmindedly as he began thinking of the other places on her body where she liked to be stroked.

"Don't stop," she whispered, "please."

"You never forget your courtesies, little bird," he rasped into her ear, "not even in the bedchamber."

"Never," she said, and he could hear the smile on her mouth without even seeing her face. "It feels nice when you touch me there."

"Oh? As nice as the other places I could touch?" he teased. She giggled, not the girlish giggles he had once heard in King's Landing, but the giggle reserved by a woman for her lover.  _A woman_ , he thought to himself.  _The girl disappeared in the Vale_. _  
_

"It's not that I do not care for  _those_ touches," she gasped through her soft chuckling. "I just feel calm when you stroke me there. Like I am at peace."

He stared at her ear, pondering what she had just said. His silence prompted her to turn her head to face him. Her blue eyes looked like the sea after a storm. He resumed stroking her thigh, and she pressed her bottom against him in response. He felt his manhood begin to stiffen at the movement. She smiled at him, a mischievous smile. Sometimes it felt like she had smiles for all sorts of responses. There once was a time when she had only one smile, a delightful one of a girl who marveled at the royal family and the capitol.  _That girl disappeared._ _  
_

She only shared stories of her time in the Vale in pieces. In the fortnight after their reunion, she kept mostly to herself, instead asking about his time at the Quiet Isle and listening to tales of Arya. Eventually, she revealed bits and pieces about her Aunt Lysa and her demise, Sweetrobin and the friends she made there, Myranda Royce and Mya Stone. She looked timid when she first told the story of Marillion and when he groped her; she did not meet his eyes until she admitted that she had mistook her rescuer for Sandor. Though he had been angrily clutching his sword when she told the story, he felt pleased that she had thought of him at that moment...that she thought of him as a protector and not an attacker. It felt like forgiveness for his actions during the Blackwater.

A fortnight after that admission, she revealed that she had been betrothed to Harrold Hardyng. A sennight after that he woke up when he heard her tears and she confessed the rest of ordeal. The things he imagined doing to Littlefinger could not bring him peace, although knowing that Sansa had already taken care of him gave him some peace of mind.  _And her, I imagine_ , he had thought at the time.

When she revealed her plans to him, he felt his chest tighten at the realization that the little bird was now a fully-grown wolf. Her only request of him was that he stay with her as she walked to her endgame.

"I will follow you to whatever end," he had said to her.

Only, he had no idea what watching her enact her justice would mean.

There were times he suspected that she invited him into her bed to placate the doubt that surely crossed his face as she made certain choices, made certain gestures and comments to those they encountered. _There is another high-born lady who does that_ , he thought whenever he witnessed those moments,  _and you should not try to emulate her_. He was surprised at her forwardness, though he supposed he should not be. It was during their first few clumsy encounters that he discovered the spot on her thigh. It shocked him that women could respond in such a way to a mere touch of a hand, let alone his hand. He had not known enough women to discover this before Sansa had asked him to please her. He had not even known of that sensitive nub above her entrance until she had guided his hand there. Though he had been fucking longer than she had been, and while he had probably had more women than she had had men, he often felt in over his head whenever they coupled. It made his stomach twist thinking of how she learned it all.

 _Everything she has gone through, and she chose a dog like me to share a bed with_. Even locking eyes with her now, he felt grateful that she had shared so much of herself with him.  _It is probably the only joy I will ever know_.

Despite the stroking of her thigh, she released a sigh of regret and began to rise from the bed. Sandor watched her as she walked away from him, her womanly hips drawing his eyes as she moved. He noticed this new walk when they reunited, though he was unsure if he enjoyed it more than he hated it. He felt his breathing hitch when he noticed her reach for the washbasin and begin cleaning in between her thighs. He knew what this action meant, though he hoped he was wrong especially since they had coupled that day.

"What are your plans for this evening?" he asked, dreading the inevitable answer.  _Same song, different man_.

She turned her head toward him, though she did not bring her eyes to meet his. "I have an appointment."


	2. Sansa I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once I started writing from Sansa's POV, I realized that I want readers to read her age as whatever they are comfortable with it being. I have a timeline in my head, though I am unsure yet if it is necessary to share that in this story. She is definitely aged-up, but I do not have a definitive number. Whatever age that you think is realistic or appropriate should work.

Sansa left her apartments in the Red Keep that evening with a satisfied smile on her face. Based on the looks she received, Sansa knew that her maids often wondered what brought her that smile, yet secrets had become Sansa's trade since she returned to King's Landing. It was widely suspected among the courtiers that Sansa was the unofficial master of whispers, though a woman named Alayne Stone officially held the title. Women rarely receive such recognition in Westeros, let alone women with reputations such as Sansa's. Though someone else held the title, a seat was always reserved for her on the small council, one she gladly accepted when it was offered to her.  _This is what he prepared me for._

A pair of maids passed her, bowing their heads as they did. They always looked wide-eyed at Sansa. She did not know if it was due to whispers or the gentle smirk on her face that caused these reactions, but she would not feel guilty for either. Her reputation was unsalvageable since she returned to Westeros from Braavos and the story of her escape from King's Landing had spread through the realm. As for her smile...it was good to have an air of mystery about her.

 **"Always keep your foes confused. If they are never certain who you are or what you want, they cannot know what you are like to do next."*** Petyr had said this to her once, and it may well be the most important lesson he ever gave her. They all knew who she was, but no one knew of her indiscretions with Sandor, and she fully intended to keep it that way. She savored her private moments with Sandor, more than anyone could truly know. They were for her, and her alone. Her time with him made her feel like a young girl again. Not in the childish sense, but in the reliving the innocence of childhood, when she dreamed of knights and maidens from songs.

 _I'll never be one of those ladies_ , she thought.  _Those dreams died long ago_.

As she walked, servants and workers turned to watch her. They always did ever since she returned. Her hips swayed and she walked to seduce and entrance. It was a walk she learned from both Ellaria Sand and Taena Merryweather, whose own walks always caught the eyes of passersby.  _Ellaria wasn't even particularly beautiful, and she managed to turn heads._

Sansa learned long ago that beauty was not everything it seemed. The fall of Cersei Lannister had taught her that, but so had the Woman of the Shadows in Braavos. Where Cersei was classically beautiful, the Woman of the Shadows was an Asshai'i and few thought she was beautiful, but she was not ugly and she was certainly exotic, which proved to be enough for the sailors in Braavos.  _Appearances are more than just physical_ , she reminded herself, repeating words that Petyr Baelish had long ago instilled in her.

As she travelled further around the keep, she took several deep breaths. She closed her eyes and continued to breathe slowly as she schooled herself into the player others had molded her to be. She was already calm, as though her nerves had died long ago. She only needed to hide any evidence of her afternoon respite with Sandor.

 _Do not think of him_ , she had to remind herself.  _It is the only way you will get through this_.

The image of his face faded from her mind as she expelled thoughts of him. His smell, his touch, the look in his eyes when he is inside of her—these memories could not be with her as she did what she had to do. There was a list that needed tending to, and she would not give up.  _I have come too far to give up now_. Only three remained. _  
_

At last, she reached the tower she had been aiming for since she left her apartments. White Sword Tower had become familiar to her in the past few years. She knew which door she wanted, although she paused momentarily.  _Which of these belonged to Sandor when he was a member of the Kingsguard?_

He rarely shared those details with her. In fact, he loathed reminiscing about their time in King's Landing, when he was a member of the white cloaks and she their victim. She did not press the matter. She discovered from her time in Braavos that words were as important as the physical aspect of seduction. To keep patrons happy, one must know to avoid their sensitive topics. If Sandor did not want to remember that time, then she would not push him.

 _Stop. He cannot be in your mind as you do this._  Thoughts of him brought back the girl, and she needed to be the woman now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Quote from GRRM's A Storm of Swords (Book 3 of ASOIAF)


	3. Sansa II

Sansa left White Sword Tower in the hour of the wolf. She crept through the halls, her head hanging as she did. Gone was the seductive saunter that she employed during the day. Light meant she had to put on a show, while night meant she could be herself.

 _It wasn't so bad_ , she told herself. She found herself frequently saying such things recently.

Though sneaking about the darkened halls of the Red Keep, her graceful walk still remained as she wandered through the night. Whether she was aiming to seduce or meekly return to her apartments, she always had an air of grace about herself. A grace that no one could steal from or beat out of her.  _Not even him._

She had reached the serpentine when she paused suddenly and remembered back to her adolescence when she would encounter Sandor on the steps. He was often drunk, often cruel, but always instinctively protecting her.  _I was a fool._  She had never understood how she had captivated him so.  _Such a stupid child who never learns, who cannot lie._ She had recognized that he had been enamored with her since she was young, when her beauty was all that entranced men.  _I could not even flirt properly, let alone seduce anyone._  Her time in the Vale and in Braavos had taught her how to play, manipulate, and satisfy anyone. A stupid little girl she was no more.  _That girl disappeared a long time ago._

In the still silence of the serpentine steps, she recalled just how drunk Sandor had been that evening. Commenting on her breasts and her blossoming womanhood, he had overstepped his bounds with the betrothed of the king. Sansa had yet to see him that drunk since he found in the Vale. She was glad he seemed to be calmer.  _The Hound had been tamed, his rage gentled, the answer to my prayers._

She shook her head at her own reminiscing. _Still a stupid girl sometimes._ No good would come from remembering. No good could come from thinking of him.

She resumed her return journey to her apartments, leaving the serpentine and the memories of innocence behind her. She needed to be alert, not lost in abandoned dreams. She was a woman now, a player in the game, a trusted advisor to the king and queen.  _Do not forget where you came from or how you got here. Do not forget what you lost and what you still risk_. Though she was an important person in the capitol, certain things must remained buried, never to see the light of day.

As she walked, she thought of how little sleep she would receive before her maids would wake her and she would need to take a bath. She would prefer a bath now to wash away the events of the night, but such a luxury would be too difficult at this hour. No one should know that she was awake, whether she was late to bed or early to rise.  _Always keep your foes confused._

She stopped as she reached her door, preparing herself for what lay inside.  _He probably isn't even here._  Sandor never was when she returned from her appointments.

She braced herself, taking a breath before she opened the door and stepped inside her sanctuary. She locked the door behind her as she turned to face the rest of her apartments. The room was dark, though moonlight gave her enough of a view to see that her bed was empty and no one was in the chamber. She swallowed hard, unsure if she was relieved or disappointed.  _He's never here when I come back_. Ever since her first appointment after asking him into her bed, he refused to be present when she returned to her rooms. At times she felt content that he let her have these moments in the aftermath of her actions to collect herself, though there were times that she wished he could hold her when she returned.  _I doubt he would ever do that. Not when I smell like another._

She accepted his actions, as he accepted hers, each more afraid of losing the other than actually communicating their stresses. She wished she could tell him more, but based on his silent reaction to her first explanation, she refrained from doing so. She wanted him with her, she needed him, but she could not stand another look from him that expressed his disapproval. He used that look so rarely that it had enormous impact when he let it loose.

 _No. Be smart, Sansa. Petyr taught you to bury that part of yourself. Do not let it surface, do not let it be known._  For all his evils, Petyr Baelish remained the greatest player of the game in her mind. Even after what he did to her, she could not deny that his lessons were essential if she were to ever get the justice she desired. There were three that remained, and she could not forget that fact as she continued with her plans. No one--not the Queen, not the King, not her siblings, not Sandor--could stop her from finishing them. Three more, until she could rest.

She undressed herself, placing her garments on the chair near the fireplace as she methodically removed each article of clothing. She had chosen the outfit for the simplicity of its removal, yet still wished she had someone to help her remove it. Sandor loved undressing her, whether it was for his own pleasure or to help her change. The first time he had done it was when she was so stiff and bruised that she could barely move, let alone place herself in the bathtub. He had helped her in the most gentlemanly manner, never lingering on her body as she was gradually exposed to him. She had long lost her modesty by then, yet she had found herself charmed by his steadfast refusal to ogle her. It was one more thing that made her...

 _Stop_.

She removed her smallclothes and held them for a moment, before tossing them in the fireplace for later use as kindling. Her naked flesh lit by the moon, she stood there, alone in her chamber.  _What am I doing? Where am I going?_

She had asked these questions since she fled King's Landing all those years ago. She never answered herself, nor did she necessarily want to know the answer. She feared it, as much as she feared everyone after her father was beheaded. But the memories of her father--the fond ones of a childhood in Winterfell, as well as the one of Ser Ilyn cutting off his head--was what kept her going, the kindling to her fire, the reason she kept on living.

Walking over to the washbasin she had used earlier, she poured herself a goblet of wine. Slowly, she drank the sour Dornish red that Sandor favored before spitting it out in her chamber pot. She repeated the action once more before she spread her legs as she lapped water from the washbasin onto her woman's place, hoping to clean all the remnants of this evening from her. Memories were one thing, physical evidence that could be used against her, by courtiers or by Sandor, were another. She knew how lucky she was that Sandor wanted to be with her still, even while knowing what she was doing when she went to her appointments; she could not incite his anger if he were to find any evidence.

After washing her woman's place, she continued to wash under her arms and breasts, as well as her neck and buttocks, trying to find any place that had been the most affected when she was on her night visits. With the water washing over her skin, she could feel a weight lifting off of her, even though it was only imaginary. The toll her plans were taking on her often worried her, but she would not give up her search for vengeance. _Three more_ , she reminded herself,  _and then you will be free_. She was a better liar than she was when she was a girl, yet she still struggled to believe that mantra whenever she told herself and willed it to be true.


	4. Sandor II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while! I've mapped out where I want this to go, but I found getting from the beginning of this chapter to the end of the chapter to be especially challenging. It didn't help that work has been crazy for over a month, but things are winding down as the quarter ends. *does victory dance*
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Not sure how many people actually read this, but the writer in me needs to practice more in order to get better, so pushing myself to write is important right now. Feedback is welcome (and will help me get better), so please give feedback about what you like, are confused about, what you speculate, etc. All of these will help me know what I doing well and what I need to work on.

Sandor awoke to a pounding in his head and the distinct feeling that the sunlight streaming in through the small window of his chambers was meant to torture him. By whom, he had not a clue. Though he did not turn to wine as much as he did in the past, remnant of his past self, remnants of the Hound, always came out whenever Sansa had one of her appointments, though she had yet to discover this. Even with all of her own little birds, Sansa somehow had a blind eye about Sandor, whether willingly or from ignorance.

Though the story of his vow to Sansa was known across Westeros, and despite the fact that this promise was, in his eyes, his finest moment, his presence in taverns and inns still sent a shock of panic to all of the patrons. His reputation was always questionable, but the atrocities in the Saltpans certainly still made others distrustful of him. And the atmosphere in  _that_ tavern was certainly not in his favor last night.

He intended only to drink himself into a stupor. He intended to forget where Sansa was and find some solace in ignorance. Only he often forgets that young sellswords and new knights love the chance to prove their bravery and skill by picking a fight with him, either with fists or with steel. This particular group of three men wanted to act high and mighty for the tavern wenches that night, wanting to prove themselves worthy of a fuck by standing up to the Hound for all of his crimes. _Bastards were tactful_ , Sandor thought,  _waiting till I was a few drinks in to attack_. Though his constitution was not what it once was, before the Quiet Isle, before Sansa, he still knew how to handle his alcohol. A stiff jaw was all Sandor was left with in the morning, while the ringleader had a broken nose and hand, and the other two had cut up arms from the dagger Sandor hid in his armor. Young fighters always forgot about close-quartered fighting, but Sandor had been around long enough to anticipate the unexpected.

Upon rising from his bed, he could feel his limbs were sore, from either the fight or the drink. The pounding in his head would not dissipate from rubbing his temples, so he stumbled to his nightstand to pour himself a small glass of water.  _Just a sip_ , he reminded himself, knowing what gulping water can do to a person suffering from wine-sickness. The liquid touched his tongue and he could feel his desire for more, but tried to fight the urge.  _Just a sip_. He set the glass down, harder than he had intended, spilling the water all over the table and himself.

"Fuck!" He shook the water from his hand, but the movement made him nauseous and hold the table to catch his balance. He blinked for a few moments, ensuring that he still had enough wits about himself to get dressed and escort Sansa to the great hall. It was their daily ritual to walk from her bedchambers to the hall together for every meal, an anchor for them to form their days around. The only exception was when Sansa or he had to attend meals with other courtiers.

He stumbled to his weirwood dresser, a gift from the current Lord of Winterfell for his service to House Stark and his continued protection of Sansa. He accidentally ripped the drawer completely from the bureau. Instead of fixing his error, he just grabbed the first tunic he saw and dressed himself to meet his lady.

Once his armor was fully on, he reached for the glass for one final sip before he began his routine. The water was not as quenching as it was earlier, which he took as good sign the wine-sickness was fading.

He opened the door of his chambers to begin his path to Sansa's door. A pair of handmaids passed him by, but never dared to look him in the eye, lowering their heads to avoid such a horror. Few women ever had the courage to look him the eye--his sister, Cersei, Sansa, Arya, the Queen. Cersei never thought twice about looking him the eye; she was a Lannister, and Lannisters did not balk at staring down a servant or a sword. The new Queen had experienced with large, fearsome warriors, and thus never saw Sandor as a threat to her; she did, however, have knowledge of his brother's deeds during the sack of King's Landing almost twenty years before, yet somehow managed to look past his relation to Gregor Clegane. His sister knew the difference between the Mountain and the Hound; she could never see Sandor as the monster the rest of the world saw. As for Arya...he was not entirely sure why Arya was so fearless; perhaps it was the Stark in her, or perhaps it was her hatred for him, or perhaps it was the thirst for revenge that she recognized in him. Sansa was an entirely different story.

He knocked on the door of her chambers, which promptly opened before she bolted from her room with a swish of her skirts. He noticed that she tried to keep him from her room after her appointments. She only permitted him to enter again when the bedding was newly washed and the dress he saw her in before her appointment was removed from her wardrobe. He tried not to linger on these observations.

Sandor watched as Sansa shut the door behind her and looked up to meet his stare. Ever since he found her again, she never faltered at looking him in the eye. The other noble women at court treated him as though he were a stoneman, never to be acknowledged or treated as a human being, but Sansa, his little bird, never once made him feel invisible, never reduced him to a single skill or quality or mark. He was more than a sword, he was more than a shield. He was more than the layers of scars on his face. He was hers. Every glance, every smile, every touch only affirmed the covenant they had made, reminded him of the vow he made to her. _My finest moment was when I made my promise to you_ , he thought to himself. He made the vow before she revealed her plans and her experiences to him.

The latch clicked as the door shut fully, and Sansa turned to him. He took her, admiring the blue dress she chose for the day. She always managed to wear blue, no matter the hue, on the days following an appointment. Sandor was not sure if it was because the color reminded her of her mother or if she imagined the fabric to be water to wash the previous night away, but she never failed to wear a blue frock. _Fuck._ _It doesn't matter._ He liked her in blue. Her blue gowns always emphasized her beautiful Tully eyes, and he loved to get lost in those eyes.

She shifted, causing Sandor to notice that he had not said anything to her yet. He paused before saying anything, wondering just how long he had been staring at her. _Fuck. Wasting even more time now._

"How are you this morning?" she asked after the silence. Though her face was often mostly blank as soon as she left her chambers, the ever so slight waver in her voice made him believe he looked worse for wear.

"Tired," he said flatly. "It was a long night." He was unsure if he meant it to hurt or to explain himself. _Might be both._

She nodded, a slight smile forming on the left side of her mouth, but her eyes blinked too many times to convince him that the possible slight went unnoticed.

"Shall we?" she asked, holding her hand in wait for him. Without thinking, he reached his arm for her to grasp. Once her hand had found its usual place in the crook of his arm, they began their steady march to the great hall to break her fast.

An uneasy silence hung between them. Sandor was unsure if he should be the one to break it, especially after his comment.

 _Say something._ For the life of him, he could not think of what to say to her. _Anything_. The longer the silence continued, the more tense he became. He glanced at her in hopes of inspiration.

Sansa seemed to sense the tension, though her face remained a mask. Sandor could feel her fingers dig ever so slightly into his arm.

"Where did you go last night?" she asked. Sandor watched her as she bit her lip.

She _asks_ me _where I was last night?_ A dark snicker escaped from him as he pondered the question.

"Went to a tavern," he revealed. Sansa slowly nodded at the fact.

"Is that all?" she inquired further. He chuckled again, seeing a connection between her questions and the silence between them from mere moments before. _All of her appointments that I don't dare ask about, and she wonders if I'd been with a whore._

"I did not go to a whorehouse, if that is what you want to know." He continued walking for a few steps before he felt her hand drop from his arm and her head disappear from his vision. He turned his whole body and head to look at her.

"I did not mean..." she paused and looked down to find her words. That was the only time she looked away from him: when she needed a moment to choose her words. _She never used to pause before she spoke._  The words used to come so easily to her. _The little bird knew how to chirp. Now she's a wolf, planning before she strikes_ , he thought. She was far more strategic with her words than she ever used to be. Where instinct once guided her courtesies, such pleasantries were in an entirely different category now.

Her eyes rose to meet his when she was ready. "That was not what I was asking..."

For all the time it took her to decide what to say, he still could not understand what she wanted to say to him. _Perhaps she is still just a little bird_. Still, he was annoyed by her lack of directness. He asked so little of her, why could she not be honest with him? "Then out with it, _my lady._ "

She looked at him with a blank stare. _Fuck_. A blank stare meant she was hurt. Rather than show her weaknesses, she had wisely learned to hide them. From everyone but him. _For all the pretty words she has, I still know her better than she realizes._ He forgets how well he knows her when he feels this way.

"I can see bruising on your face," she started, "I only wanted to know what happened."

Sandor closed his mouth once he realized that he was gaping at her. She began to move again, moving past him steadily without reaching for him. He stomped to catch up with her, falling in step with her. For all the years he walked behind Cersei or Joffrey, Sansa had always insisted that he walk next to her. He gladly obeyed.

"Are you hurt?" she asked him after a moment.

He sighed. "No."

"You have a bruise."

"Bruises heal."

"Sandor..."

" _My lady._ "

She suddenly stopped, grabbing his arm to stop him from walking further from her. She clutched him and look him square in his eyes, with no hint of love or flirtation in her own.

"What happened?" she demanded.

Staring back at her face, taking in her worried eyes of Tully blue and the furrowed brow showing her concern, he swallowed, feeling a sudden wave of shame for his words.

"Just a few men who had something to prove."

Her jaw shifted as she considered the information. "Were they sellswords or bannermen?"

"Little bird..."

"Sandor, tell me now."

He sighed. "I do not know."

"Well, what colors were they wearing?"

"I...do...not...know." He enunciated each word carefully to get Sansa to understand without him saying it, admitting to his own weakness.

She laughed nervously, or perhaps angrily. She had gotten better at showing a range of emotions. Ladies used courtesy, she had explained to him one night during their flight from the Vale, and they always pleased the people around them. Yet here she was, as he often saw her, wearing a mask that always confused everyone, most of all him at this moment. As well as he knew her, understood her, there were parts of her that always seemed out reach. _Take down the highborn girl, bring her low and treat her like dirt, and she still manages to be just above the rest_.

"How much had you drank?" she asked. Sandor thought he saw a fire in her eye.

"Sansa..." he stopped just short of pleading.

"How much?" she pushed.

 _If she really wants to know, why not..._ He looked her square in the eye and said, "Not enough."

Her breath caught in her throat, a sound he loved under the right circumstances, but not now. Not during their first fight since he found her at the Eyrie. She released his arm from her clutches, though he did not move an inch.

She swallowed, and turned from him, looking down at her dress and smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in the fabric before she returned to her usual pace. He again leapt to walk by her side.

He did not reach for her, nor did she for him. The uneasy silence returned.

They approached the serpentine steps that held such importance to the both of them. The serpentine steps was where this, whatever it was between the two of them, began. They were long, and winding, and perhaps the most beautiful part of the Red Keep, at least to them. At least to him.

Another group of handmaids walked by, gaping at the tall pair in front of them. He had always been uncomfortable with people staring at him, and he continued to hate it even after his time on the Quiet Isle. He especially hated it when he worried that Sansa was the target of the stares. He was used to such looks from people, as much as they irritated him. He did want the same for Sansa.

Yet, there she was. She walked on without any acknowledgement of the handmaids. He could tell she was ignoring them, though he only knew because he was used to her ignoring his more colorful or harsh comments. _She used to try so hard to go unnoticed, and blushed whenever anyone noticed her._ Those blushes were a thing of the past now, as she had learned to control the blushes in public. _Not in private_ , he smiled to himself as he reflected on those stolen moments in her chambers, _their_ moments far from the maddening crowds of court.

As he and his charge rounded a corner, he cringed as he heard the handmaids' chortling. He glanced at Sansa to gauge her reaction, and saw her look down in response to the echoes of cackling.

"Ignore them, little bird," he leaned towards her to whisper.

"Don't worry," she smiled slyly. "They matter not."

He could see her look glance at him out of the corner of his eye, and he found himself wishing that she would just say what she was thinking.

"Do you..." she began, before a servant appeared before them.

"My lady," the messenger nodded at Sansa, before he turned to Sandor, "Clegane."

Sandor nodded back, grateful that the majority of courtiers had managed to switch from "Hound" and "dog" to "Clegane". As long as they avoided "ser" and "my lord", he was pleased.

"My lady, the King and Queen have requested that you join them to break your fast this morning," the messenger delivered quickly, nervously glancing at Sandor as he spoke.

"Of course, thank you, Morren," Sansa nodded at the messenger. _How does she know_ everyone _?_ He constantly marveled at how Sansa managed to keep track of everyone at court.

The messenger returned Sansa's nod, before glancing at Sandor again. "Clegane," Sandor received a nod as well.

Morren scurried away from them, not bothering another unnecessary glance. Sandor had developed a reputation for fiercely guarding Sansa's honor, and such guardianship had resulted in no one leering at her. She had had enough of that.

Sansa turned to him as Morren disappeared from their vision. She bit her lip again, choosing words once more.

"I should go alone from here," she said softly, and he nodded without thinking. She was right, of course, but he felt a pang deep inside at the prospect of their morning walk being cut short. He hated when the King and Queen requested Sansa's presence, as it meant he could not follow her there.

"What will you do?" she asked, reaching him for the first time since their spat.

He thought on it, wondering if he should reveal where he always goes the day after her appointments.

"The training yard, most like," he shared with her. "The King asked that I help train a new batch of squires."

"The King asked you?" Sansa raised an eyebrow at the information. "Perhaps he likes you more than you think."

"He doesn't have to like me to know that I'm best sword in the city."

"Is the humble Hound showing his true colors right now?" Sansa's flirtations could disarm the most cold of men, the most loyal of husbands.

"Sansa, I am not one of those men," he said, again managing to stop just short of pleading. "You don't need to talk to me like that."

Her expression shifted, but acceptance seemed just under the surface. She nodded at him before turning away and making her way to the royal chambers, trying to understand the one man in the city who wanted both nothing and everything from her. Whether or not she could actually give it was still a question Sandor could not answer. Or at least he was afraid to.


	5. Sansa III

As Sansa walked away from Sandor, she felt the knots in her stomach disappear, for the time being. The man she trusted most in the entire city, perhaps even the entire continent, caused her more confusion and pain than she would admit to anyone, least of all herself.  _He can be insufferable_ , she thought, yet she felt an important part of her disappear as each step took her further away from her shield.

Making her way to the royal chambers, where the King and Queen often broke their fasts in private with counselors or by themselves, Sansa tried to push thoughts of her lover out of her mind in order to school herself into yet another mask. She could be more of herself with the King and Queen, but it was not the same as when she was with Sandor. The regents trusted her, valued her, gave her a coveted spot on the small council, but they did not know what had happened to her in the past few years, the things she had done, the things she still needed to do. Sandor knew, as best he could, but Sansa found herself doubting whether or not he understood it fully.

Upon arriving at the doors to royal chambers, Sansa glanced at the two members of the Kingsguard, Ser Hobber Redwyne and Ser Renly Norcross, the two youngest members of the White Brotherhood. Ser Renly smiled at Sansa, while Ser Hobber gave the most basic of pleasantries to her.  _Lady Olenna's great-nephew_ , she reminded herself,  _made Kingsguard in order to protect Margaery after Ser Loras died. Why would he be anything more than pleasant to the fallen woman of King's Landing?_

"Good morning, Ser Renly, Ser Hobber." Sansa bowed her head politely at each of them.

"Lady Sansa, good morning," Ser Renly responded. Ser Hobber shot a glance at Ser Renly at the title.

"My lady," Ser Hobber nodded.

"I believe the King and Queen requested my presence," she smiled at the men.

"Yes...Lady...L...my lady," Ser Renly corrected himself this time. He reached to grasp the handle of the door to permit her entrance. She heard Ser Hobber sigh as she passed by.

The door had barely shut behind her when she was greeted with the smiles of the King and Queen already sitting at the dining table.

"Lady Sansa, how are you this morning?" the Queen gave her brightest smile as she welcomed Sansa with open arms. Sansa approached the Queen and embraced her as she would a sister.

"Sansa," greeted Jon. He rose from his seat and pulled out the chair to his right for her to sit, as was custom for a blood relative of a royal. Unlike most of the tables in the Red Keep, the one that the King and Queen chose to use was round rather than having sides. The reasoning behind the decision being that the King and Queen, co-rulers and regents in their own rights, would not allow for any seating arrangement to place either one over the other. They each had a claim, one that the other respected.

"Thank you," Sansa absently placed an arm on his shoulder to acknowledge his kindness before lowering herself into the seat, "and I am well this morning, my Queen. How are you?"

Sansa refrained from reaching for any food as neither Jon nor the Queen had anything on their plates.

"I am well," the Queen's remarkable purple eyes glittered as she rubbed her stomach. Sansa surveyed the table and saw honeyed ham, blackberry and strawberry preserves and orange marmalade, fresh baked lemon bread (a new favorite of Sansa's as well as the Queen's), sausages, glazed bacon, and crabs sautéed in white wine (another new favorite of Sansa's). Farther down the table, Sansa noted the smattering of pineapple, grapefruit, and oranges as well as shredded potatoes with peppers and onions and spiced locusts, a foreign delicacy that Queen Daenerys had popularized upon the Targaryen Reclamation of Westeros.

"Please serve yourself first, San," Jon encouraged her. Whether she was with her brother or with a king, Sansa Stark still could not bring herself to forego basic courtesy. With his approval, Sansa began serving herself two slices of the lemon bread, a small piece of honeyed ham, in addition to the crab dish, before choosing a piece of pineapple to add to her plate. After her night, she knew she would likely need another serving, but hoped that Jon and Daenerys would not notice her unusual hunger.

"Pregnancy clearly agrees with you, my Queen. You are almost glowing." Sansa used flattery to pass the time as she waited for Jon and Dany to have food in front of them to eat. Jon took his wife's plate and began serving her, clearly aware of what she wanted, grabbing a handful of the locusts, a large slice of the lemon bread, in addition to the crabs.

"No bacon or ham, right?" Jon turned to Dany with her plate.

"No," she gave him a closed-mouth smile in gratitude and waited for him to choose his own servings.

"If the smell makes you nauseous, we can have them removed, Your Grace," Sansa offered, but Daenerys merely waved her hand at her.

"Not at all, Sansa. I only cannot bring myself to eat it and keep it down, but I know you usually like ham and bacon for your morning meal."

"Indeed, I do, I must confess," Sansa laughed. "Is pig the only meat that makes you nauseous?"

"It would appear so," Dany said. "I cannot seem to get enough of crab, lobster, oysters, or clams. Or the spiced locusts." Daenerys held one up as she spoke before delicately taking a bite.

Sansa had wanted to ask if her last pregnancy caused the same cravings, but decided against doing so in front of Jon. Though Sansa knew from both Jon and Daenerys that Jon did not mind discussing Dany's first husband in private, but could not bear to do so in public for fear of discovering something new about the man in front of witnesses. Dany held the same policy with Jon's past, as well.

"Is nausea the only thing causing you difficulty so far?" Sansa inquired further, choosing a topic that she already knew most of the answers to, but one that would not cause a tense breakfast.

"Thankfully, yes," Daenerys sounded relieved. "Grandmaester Marwyn has been wonderful

"Grandmaester Marwyn has been...unbelievable," Jon said, though there was some distance in his voice at this admission. Sansa avoided glancing at either of them, but still observed them out of the corner of her eye as she applied blackberry preserves to her lemon bread. Marwyn was believed to dabble in spells and other unsavory things by courtiers, but Sansa knew for sure that he was skilled in countless areas, including herbal remedies and healing that few others were as well-versed in.  _Perhaps the Elder Brother is Marwyn's only equal_ , Sansa wondered.

"He  _has_ been unbelievable, and nothing short of a miracle worker," Daenerys said steadfastly. Though agreeing with Jon in words, her tone communicated something else.

"Three months, correct?" Sansa asked, and was given a nod from both Jon and Dany. Sansa was one of a few who knew of the pregnancy, with the information being reserved for the small council rather than revealed to the masses until Daenerys was certain she would not miscarry. Though she had not revealed much to Sansa for many reasons, she did acknowledge her own concern of losing another child as she had lost her child with Khal Drogo.

"Does the Grandmaester have any idea what the sex is yet?" Curiosity got the better of Sansa for the moment.

"No, but it doesn't matter," Jon argued, his northern accent becoming stronger with his passion, "Boy or girl, the first born will be the heir."

Sansa smiled as she cut a piece of crab.  _If only all of the great houses chose the same practice_. She thought briefly of Dorne and how capable of rule the women were. She felt awestruck when she met Arianne Martell for the first time.

"Boy or girl, you still wish for a boy," Dany smiled at Jon.

Jon aggressively shook his head, although Sansa could tell from his shoulders that he was not angry. "I do not wish for a boy. A girl would be just as welcome."

"You want an Eddard Targaryen, do not deny it," Dany laughed at her husband, and Sansa felt a pang in her chest. Sansa had been present when Jon and Daenerys first met years ago at the Wall, and even then she sensed something between them, though neither one would admit it. All through the Long Night, they had not taken any lovers nor gone to the other's bed, but _something_ was there. It was not earth-shattering, Sansa had gathered that much based on what both Jon and Dany had revealed to her in private. Nor was it true love, but equal standing and mutual respect had given them a far better foundation than most political marriages in Westeros. Sansa wondered if she would ever be given the same opportunity.

"I would love an Eddard Targaryen or an Aemon, but I would accept a Lyanna, or a Rhaella, or even a Jonquil—"

"No!"

Sansa felt strangely numb and oversensitive, and she could tell her mask was gone and a look of pure surprise was on her face, and even more when she realized the objection was from her own lips. "I—I apologize, my King and Queen."

She felt like something hit her, not a fist but something like a wave of bricks had hit her without warning. _Not that name_. She placed her fork and knife on her plate to bring her napkin to her mouth, perhaps trying to wipe away the awestruck look.

"San, you have no need to speak so formally with us," Jon reminded her, delicately as he appeared as surprised by her outburst as she was.

"Do you not want us to use Eddard?" Jon asked this slowly, as he seemed afraid of her response. "I know he was  _your_ father and not mine, so...so I would understand..."

"No, no," Sansa insisted. _Shit. What do I say? Shit. Why am talking like_ him _right now?! Of all the times to think of him_. Sansa attempted to regain control, first by taming her own shaky voice. "It is not that. I'm sorry, I should not have said anything. I do not know what came over me."

Her fumbling words did nothing to fix the grave she had dug.

"Sansa, what could be the matter?" Daenerys began leaning forward, concern clearly written across her face.

"Jonquil," Sansa whispered, deciding that half a truth would be better than nothing. She could not exactly put a finger on why it upset her so. "Not that name, please."

A look of slight recognition came to Jon's face as he connected the name to her outburst. "Jonquil? Alright. It is just a name. It does not matter to us."

An awkward silence set in, as neither Jon nor Dany said anything, nor did they resume eating. Daenerys and Jon exchanged a look.

"Sansa, I did not realize that you wanted to have children," Dany confessed, managing to sense what Sansa could not put her finger on.

Sansa bit her lip, trying to mentally wash the shock away from her.

"I know, but it matters not." She had resigned herself to not having children, knowing that circumstance and what the rest of the country believed of her would not allow her to be the mother to any respectable children. "I do not know what came over me."

In order to force the moment away, Sansa took her fork and knife to resume eating.

"And if you want to name a son Eddard, then you should feel more than welcome to, Jon," Sansa whispered. "I know Rhaegar was your true father, but father... _my_ father raised you and loved you like a son. I often times think you were his favorite. After Arya."

Sansa smiled at Jon, an honest smile, the type of smile Sandor desperately wanted to see more of, she knew, but they were hard to muster. Jon returned the smile.

Sansa daintily cleared her throat and shook off the last of her odd behavior. "So, Eddard, if it is a boy. Which female name do you prefer? Rhaella or Lyanna?"

Daenerys had a smile on her face, although it appeared a little forced. "I would prefer Rhaella. The only father you ever knew, or the mother I never knew. Rather poetic. Something for the songwriters and storytellers a hundred years from now."

There _was_ some tragic poetry to King Jon I Targaryen and Queen Daenerys I Targaryen having a prince and princess named after Eddard Stark and Rhaella Targaryen. There was tragic poetry in Sansa wishing she could have a daughter named Jonquil, a joke between the mother and the father that no one would fully understand.  _Perhaps more of a jape._

Sandor had never spoken of a desire to have children. He had never even spoken of a desire to get married. Not that they could.  _Would he even want me to bear his children?_  She felt a stab in her heart at the thought.

Feeling melancholy wash over her, Sansa pushed the dark thoughts from her mind. Impulsively, Sansa grabbed the chalice near her plate and raised it in the air in order to regain control of the situation. "To Eddard Targaryen or Rhaella Targaryen. May he or she be born healthy and ready to learn how to rule."

Daenerys began uncontrollably beaming at Sansa's toast. Jon smiled at his wife's joy, and both rose their own goblets to join Sansa. "To Eddard or Rhaella."

 _Parental pride_ , Sansa thought to herself.  _Petyr would be proud of this move_. She absently shook her head as she swallowed her wine.

"Now," Daenerys adjusted herself in her chair again. "We have a few pressing things to discuss with you, Sansa. I know you always give us your report later during the moonturn, but there have been a few whispers that have reached our ears that we wondered if you could further investigate."

"Whispers?" Sansa raised an eyebrow at the Queen's word choice. She reached for another piece of lemon bread and served herself some more crab and bacon. "Do tell."

Jon took a breath, not an unusual action on his part. "While the Sparrows no longer have a base in King's Landing, there are claims that the Sparrows and followers of the Red God have had skirmishes in both the Riverlands and the Westerlands. The riverfolk seem to be largely converted to R'hllor thanks to a vigilante they call Lady Stoneheart."

A look passed between Jon and Sansa.

Sansa wiped her mouth before speaking. "That is not much of a surprise, considering what the riverfolk saw when they looked at this Lady Stoneheart."

"Yes," Daenerys acknowledged, "but the fact remains that the followers of the Lord of Light and the Sparrows threaten the King and Queen's peace. We know from the Lannister reign in King's Landing what zealots can do to the crown. There was a reason Maegor dismantled the the Faith Militant in the first place."

Sansa sighed deeply.

"According to the Lord Commander of the City Watch, more followers of the Red God come flocking to the city due to you, my Queen," Sansa gave the little information and understanding she had of the followers of the R'hllor. "You are Daenerys the unburnt, you have three dragons,  and both you and Jon were instrumental during the Long Night. Ask any of them whom they believe is their savior, and they have two options, both equally likely. Putting down anyone who supports you so fervently has the potential to cause a great backlash, even if they are zealots."

"Then what do you propose we do?" Daenerys said angrily, though Sansa had the wisdom to know that the anger was not directed at her. "You say siding with the Sparrows will alienate those who are devoted to us, but then all three of us know that siding with those who worship the Red God would alienate the Faith. Even Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys knew better than to do that, and they too had three dragons on their side."

Sansa took a deep breath and racked her brain for a possible solution. "The children of the forest and the First Men made a pact. When the Andals invaded, everywhere but in the North septs were built while godswoods were maintained to avoid religious wars. We make vows to and swear by the old gods and new, but where is the Lord of Light in all of this? The only red temples in Westeros are in Oldtown and...in Dorne, though I cannot recall where."

"We will have to verify this with the representative from Dorne," Daenerys gave both Jon and Sansa a look that was meant to express her excitement at the prospect—or lack thereof.

"Regardless, perhaps a red temple or two can be resurrected in the Riverlands and the great lords should be given strict orders to punish attacks against anyone on the grounds of religion, severely. At least until a law can be passed that will better define such penalties." Sansa took a breath, both because she had ran out as she rushed her idea into verbalization and as she prepared herself for the next statement. "I do not believe religion should interfere with individual rights, and considering the efforts the both of you have made to give more autonomy to the smallfolk, I think similar stances would be wise to defend."

Sansa did not know if Jon or Daenerys understood the message she was trying to convey under the surface. Daenerys nodded while holding Sansa's gaze, while Jon had a half-smile on his face as he proudly took in Sansa.

"What else?" Sansa asked, uncomfortable with their gazes.  _How would they understand what I am trying to say? I am not being direct. He would roll his eyes at me now._  A thought prodded at Sansa.  _Well, he would not roll his eyes at everything_. In fact, she suspected he would be proud of her suggestions. He loved her when she showed the strategic wolf rather than the chirping little bird.  _Most of the time, anyway_.

"There is a rumor that a woman has been frequenting White Sword Tower," Jon sighed, and Daenerys rolled her eyes. Sansa made sure her mask did not crack now, especially not after her outburst earlier.

"Ser Barristan believes Ser Meryn is responsible," Daenerys sighed, not hiding her annoyance.

"Ser Meryn?" Sansa sounded surprised.

Jon nodded. "It is not the first time Kingsguard have snuck prostitutes into White Sword Tower, but even Jaime Lannister forbade such behavior, as did Ser Barristan before his dismissal."

"Ser Barristan suspects that many rules went unfollowed when the Kingslayer was in the Riverlands."

"Do still need me to ask my little birds if it is Ser Meryn, or do you need me to speak to Chataya—"

"Sansa—" Jon stopped her, clearly uncomfortable.

"Jon, does it bother you that I speak with Chataya from time to time?"

"It bothers me that you spend time with a brothel owner," Jon corrected.  _It wouldn't be the first time._

"She runs the cleanest brothel in King's Landing, and she treats those who work there well. It is wise to maintain a...a business relationship with her." Sansa could not bring herself to call it a friendship.

"I only want you to consider your standing," Jon pushed, not making eye contact with Sansa.

Sansa suppressed a chuckle, although it did not escape Jon and Daenerys' notice.

"My standing? Tell me, what standing do I have?"

"You are a counselor to the king and queen," offered Dany. "You are the master of whispers."

"No, _Alayne Stone_ is the master of whispers, because we all know what the courtiers and the nobles and the smallfolk think of Sansa Stark." Sansa's voice broke as she said her last name, the name of her father.

"You are kin to the king," Daenerys amended, "and to me."

"True," Sansa acceded, "but I am still spoiled in the eyes of the rest of the world. Even though Alayne has the title, I am the master of whispers yet I cannot control all of the whispers about me. How fitting."

Sansa took another drink from her chalice, hoping the sour red that was in there would give her comfort and courage, as it seemed to have once done to Sandor. _It still brings him comfort_ , she corrected, if his revelation about last night and his appearance this morning were anything to go by.

"Sansa, you are very dear to the both of us," Daenerys admitted, despite the difficulty she herself has had with opening herself to Sansa's charms, "and you are instrumental in advising us and keeping the country at peace. Jon did not mean anything before."

Though Jon and Sansa did not quarrel often, Dany had proved herself an expert at mediation. Usually, Jon was the one on the lookout for any awkward moments or misunderstandings between Sansa and Daenerys.

"What do you want me to do about Ser Meryn?" Sansa returned to the main topic expertly.  _Hopefully, that argument distracts them_.

"Just confirm or deny if a woman is visiting him," Jon asked, still avoiding Sansa's face.

"We are trying to build a case for dismissing Ser Meryn, but we need more," Daenerys revealed. "Ser Barristan has been adamant about returning the Kingsguard to its former glory, before the Usurper—"

"Before Robert and the Lannisters had control," Jon corrected his wife's word choice. _She often forgets that his uncle and my father were apart of that rebellion._

"Yes, of course," Daenerys sighed at her husband's interruption. "Ser Barristan insists that the other members of the Kingsguard are competent and well-suited to the cloak. Ser Meryn appears to be the last of the Lannister grime that needs to be washed away."

"I can look into it," Sansa promised. She finished her chalice and picked up the last crumbs of the lemon bread with her finger tips. "Is that all?"

"There is one more thing," Daenerys said, her tone shifting to a more serious and queenly one. She looked to Jon to continue.

"While this is not a rumor, we still have the important matter of finding a new master of coin for the small council."

"We know that Petyr Baelish was once master of coin, and we wondering if it was possible for him to resume the position, even if temporarily," Daenerys suggested. Sansa did not react. "Do you know if he would be willing to return to King's Landing for a seat on the small council?"

"He is unavailable," Sansa revealed after a pause. "My little birds tell me he has not been seen in several moonturns, if not more."

"He was Lord Paramount of the Trident," Jon questioned.

" _Was_." Sansa reiterated. "Uncle Edmure is again in control of the Riverlands, and has been ever since you became king."

"Yes, but men like Littlefinger do not simply disappear after such a demotion," said Jon. He stared hard at her. Sansa wanted to move, but refused to let Jon see her shift uncomfortably.

"True, but I am not concerned. He has a lot of ghosts haunting him in Harrenhal, and they are ghosts that he has earned. If someone got their revenge for his plotting, then I do not think we need to be worried about it nor grieve over it."

"Only if the avenger is not also plotting against us," Daenerys acknowledged.

"True, but you can rest assured that my little birds are watching for such conspirators. Petyr made many enemies in his climb. A friend or a foe could have caused his disappearance. Regardless, we should be grateful he is no longer a threat."

"Was he truly a threat?" Daenerys inquired.

"Yes," Sansa jumped to respond. "Petyr is part of the reason the kingdom's finances were in disarray when you took the throne. He had been borrowing money from the Iron Bank for years without telling King Robert or Jon Arryn, all in the name of destabilizing the kingdom. He thrived in chaos, and he reaped what he sowed."

Jon and Daenerys both looked at Sansa, clearly puzzled.

"I am surprised your Hand never shared that with you," Sansa snapped. Daenerys shifted in her seat again, her hand absently on her stomach.

"We did not consult him, yet," Jon shared. "We wondered what you knew about him before we would to go to him."

"Had you gone to him first, you would have heard worse things than what I just shared."  _Of course, I could share more._

"If not Petyr Baelish, then who?" Daenerys rushed, shifting again, clearly uncomfortable. "The man the Lannister-Tyrell alliance had as master of coin is not an option, for the reasons of infirmity and general incompetence. The Tyrells seem good with money, but that appears to be due to the fact that they have obscene amounts of it."

"I have a name, but I doubt you will like it," Sansa revealed softly.

"Who?" Jon asked.

"Lady Olenna Redwyne is much less senile that she acts, and she knows how to manage money," Sansa flicked her eyes up to Jon when she finished.

"Sansa, she tried to frame you for regicide!" Jon was aghast. "How could we trust that she would not do the same? She could try to poison Daenerys in order to marry Margaery to a  _fourth_ king!"

"I said you would not like it. While she has done much in service to her house and for her granddaughter, I suspect that even a matriarch like Olenna would jump at the chance to be master of coin and treasurer of the realm. Though not as bitter as Cersei Lannister, I do believe that she hated being relegated for a part of life for being a woman. Coming from that background, I would say that she would be a surprisingly loyal choice."

"Sansa, you can't be serious!" Jon seemed out of breath.

"It is a gamble," Sansa relented, "but she is a far better option than Petyr Baelish or Harys Swift. Ask your Hand. See what he says of the option."

"I do not think he will be thrilled with the prospect," Daenerys gritted through her teeth.

"Your Grace, are you alright?"

"I feel sick..." Dany said before rising from her chair. "I apologize but I must beg your leave to avoid embarrassing myself by retching in front of my husband's kin."

"It is understandable, Your Grace," Sansa said, rising from her chair and bowing her head as Daenerys exited the room. Sansa turned to Jon.

"Perhaps the crabs, though she craves them, do not agree with her," Jon pondered.

"Perhaps," Sansa smiled at him, "but let her be the judge of that. Mother's stomach so limits women during pregnancy, do not prevent her from enjoying everything. I doubt you will have many unpleasant surprises, even though you are both concerned."

"Dually noted," Jon jested. His smiled lessened as he looked at Sansa. "Do you really want to have children of your own?"

Sansa felt her breath hitch at the question, hoping she truly had put the matter to rest with her change of subject earlier.

"We may be cousins, but I was raised as your brother and we will always be blood. You're my sister."

"But not your favorite sister," she jested to reclaim the line of inquiry.

"Stop that," Jon nudged her arm, "and don't change the subject."

The smile that was on her face softened as she thought of what to say.  _The wolf at work._ "I know I will not be able to have children on my own terms...so, no, I am not likely to have children."

"Sansa, you and I both know that you have the means to have children," Jon reminded her, not fully understanding the implications of his offer.

"I want my children to be Starks...or..." she shook her head. "Not...Waters or Snows or Hills or anything else."

Jon looked at Sansa, a bit surprised at the list. "Sansa, I did not mean you would have bastards..."

"I know," Sansa said quickly. "But you need to understand that what you suggest is not what I want."

"And what do you want?" Jon pushed, not satisfied with the vague answers and comments she had made throughout the morning since her outburst.

She felt her breath catch again at another of his questions.  _What do I say? What am I doing? Where am I going?_  She had revealed all that she was comfortable revealing, and she was unsure what else she could say without giving too much away.

"Freedom," she said with regret in her voice, knowing that such a simple thing would be denied, even by a man she had never stopped believing to be her brother.

"Sansa..."

"I know. We need not discuss it anymore. The debate is over, and I clearly lost."

Jon turned his body to the balcony of the apartment, licking his lips as he looked out at the day. "You know the reasons why that could not be granted."

"I know," she conceded, "but I still resent them."

Her vision got slightly blurry, and she could tell that her eyes were tearing. Jon looked to her again and saw the tears forming.

"I am sorry there is not more that I can do."

Sansa shook her head at him. "Please stop. We do not need to talk about it any longer. It only brings anger to all sides."

She walked over to balcony to enjoy the summer sun. Jon followed close behind her. Leaning against the pillar in the corner of the terrace, she looked to Jon and smiled.

"Please, let us speak of happier topics," she plastered a smile on her face, one of her more believable smiles as Jon smiled back genuinely. "You are going to be a father."

Jon laughed nervously. "It is funny, but I did not think that I would ever have be a father. Even before I joined the Night's Watch. Sometimes I panic thinking that I do not know what to do."

"What do you mean? You watched father raised six children. Seven, if you include..." Sansa trailed off, unable to bring herself to say his name.

"No, I won't include him." Jon's smile faded at the mention of Theon. Sansa hugged herself as she remembered the years during which she thought that he had killed Bran and Rickon.

"Well, clearly my master plan to discuss less depressing things has failed," Sansa jested to lighten the mood.

"Sansa, why does it always feel like you know just what to say?"

"I think we are both aware that I do not always," Sansa deprecated her conversation skills. Though there were times she was terrified and did not know what to say, she had managed to get out of many unsavory, dangerous, and revealing situations since her time in the Vale. She had an endgame, and she would not jeopardize that, even if she got caught up in a lie or her own emotions. She had an endgame, and she needed to stick to it.

"So what are you plans for the rest of the day?" Jon inquired of the woman who would always be a sister to him.

"Well," Sansa began, "I have to begin investigating this Meryn Trant business, so I will probably go find my sworn shield from here. Make a plan for getting Chataya here."

"I'm sure he knows where to find her," Jon muttered. Sansa felt like she had been slapped. Though she knew that Sandor had been with many prostitutes and knew that he had begun to frequent Chataya's after he won the Hand's tourney, thinking about the fact made her stomach twist. She never voiced this discomfort to Sandor, knowing she had no right to express such feelings after all that he had done for her and all that overlooks for her, even still.

"Jon, that was unnecessary," Sansa said as much in defense of Sandor as in frustration for having to be reminded of such things. "Sandor has not visited a brothel since he came into my service."

"Sansa, you know his reputation—how can you be so sure that he no longer pays whores to--"

"Jon!" Sansa shouted at his continued verbal assault about Sandor. "I know."

"How?"

"The man never took a night's vows, never took the vows of the Kingsguard, never took the vows of a silent brother when he was on the Quiet Isle even though he was in service to them and had no intention of leaving. His only vow has ever been to me, and it was to be in my service and follow my rules, and he knows that he remains in my service if he remains in my good graces. That means not paying whores for anything."

"For all your dreaming about knights and maidens, even wanting the name Jonquil for a daughter, you have a remarkable amount of faith in a man who displays none of the qualities that you admire."

Sansa reached her hand above her eyes in an effort to shield them from the sun, only for Jon to better see her eyes as she said the next part. "He is **brave and gentle and strong*** , more so than any knight I have known."

"Don't let Dany hear you say that," Jon warned. "You know how she feels about Ser Barristan, and you know how  _he_ feels about the Hound."

"I do know. I only want you to know what I know."

"If I knew all that you knew, I would not need you to be the master of whispers." Sansa laughed.

"I cannot think you hate him, as he told me this morning that _you_ asked him to train a new batch of recruits for the City Watch. Not the Lord Commander, you."

"I do not need to like him to know that he a good fighter. One of the best." Jon managed to relent and argue in the same breath.  _They are not as different as they like to think._

"Jon, I understand that you are not fond of Sandor, but you should understand my trust in him," Sansa pushed her point, if only to hide the fact that she did far more than trust Sandor Clegane. "When I had no one, not a single ally in this castle, he saved me. When I was in the Vale, he fought for me and helped me escape. When I was in Braavos, he protected me and provided for me. He was there for me when others forgot about me and he asked for nothing in return. I trust him just as much as I trust you."  _If not more._

"Even with the story of how he came into your service, I still find it hard to believe that he is not the Lannister dog he was when I first met him, or the brutal killer he has been known to be since Robert's Rebellion. I respect that you trust him, and I accept that you keep him in your service, but I do not think it wise. Neither does Dany."

"I wonder why the Queen does not trust the brother of the man who brutalized her brother's wife and her nieces and nephews."

"They were not only her kin. They were my brother and sister."

"Jon, I am aware who and what Gregor Clegane was. Sandor is not him."

"Perhaps. But he has a long way to go before _I_ trust him."

"He will be destroyed to learn this," Sansa said seriously, before breaking into a smile. Jon laughed at her humor. "Well, the morning is fleeting, and I have an investigation to conduct."

"Sansa, I mean it about Chataya," Jon made one last plea for propriety, something he rarely did. "I do not think it appropriate for  _you_ to go to Chataya's. All I ask is that you yourself do not visit her brothel. Work around that command as you see fit, but follow it."

"Of course, Your Grace," Sansa said in all seriousness, bowing her head and looking Jon in the eye so he knew that she understood and respected his command. She turned from him to leave the chambers.

"Thank you," he said to her as her hand touched the handle. Sansa turned to him to smile before she made her exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the descriptions of the breakfast. I was kind of having a food-gasm when I was writing there and couldn't help myself. No wonder GRRM devotes so much description to food in ASOIAF.
> 
> I really tried to show Sansa's competence and intelligence here, but I don't want anyone to feel like she is too OOC. Although I am still problem solving the timeline as I write, this Sansa has had years to grow, mature, and learn. I do promise that you will learn some of what has happened to her in the intervening years between ASOIAF and this fic's timeline.
> 
> *Quote from GRRM's A Game of Thrones (book 1 of ASOIAF)


	6. Sandor III

"Keep your shield arm up!" Sandor spat at the new recruits for the City Watch.  _A bunch of green boys to the slaughter_ , he sneered in his head, _fucking idiots_. Not that the City Watch was particularly dangerous business in recent years, since the War of the Five Kings had been put to rest with none of the five kings left and the Targaryen Reclamation settling the remaining disputes of the game of thrones.  _Not that the scheming has stopped_. Sandor felt bile rise up in his throat as he thought of his little bird.

"Now you, come at me," Sandor pointed at the smallest of the batch, hoping to make a point about the importance of strategy and skill rather than brute strength. The recruit looked at him with wide eyes and fear painted on his face. The recruit stepped forward, walking awkwardly but did not charge at Sandor.

Sandor slowly approached the boy when his trudging barely advanced him to the center of the training yard. As Sandor towered above the recruit, he said in a terrifyingly low rasp, "When I say 'come at me', I mean 'charge', boy."

Sandor turned away from him, expecting that he had sufficiently scared the recruit into submission. "And I mean immediately. Now come at me!"

The boy charged, looking more awkward than he had before as he struggled to keep the shield up to protect his body. The sparring sword in his hand was too loosely gripped to have any effect. Sandor rolled his eyes at the sight.

"Stop!" Sandor shouted at the recruit. "You look like a fool and a corpse wouldn't even be afraid of you."

The recruit slinked back when Sandor walked up to him again, only this time Sandor did not have the intent to threaten or scare.

"Why did you not do as you were told the first time?" His question was not meant to be harsh, but his tone did little to calm the recruit.

"I...ser...I don't..."

"Not a ser, _boy_. Now answer."

"I was afraid."

 _At last_. "And why were you afraid?" Sandor relished teaching this lesson to recruit every time he was asked to be the master-at-arms or some such honor bestowed by people with more money and influence than him.

"Be...because..."  _Choosing his words carefully. Just like the little bird_. "...because you're the Hound."

The other recruits shifted in the line they had made on the far side of the training yard.

"You're a Clegane," the boy added as his head hung low.  _And there it is_.

"And what have you heard?"

"About...the Hound...or House Clegane?" The recruit's head rose to meet Sandor's gaze upon realizing that there was no increase in anger or harshness in Sandor's voice.

"Either. Both. What have you heard?"

"You were Joffrey's sworn shield for years...You're one of the best fighters alive. You're house is known for strong warriors."

"What else?" Sandor growled, looking for a specific glory in his reputation.

"You...you...you killed the Mountain in single combat."

"And what have you heard about my brother?"

"The Mountain..." The boy shuffled his feet under Sandor's gaze.

"What about the rest of you? What have you heard?" He turned to the rest of the recruits, wanting this lesson to be for all of them and not just this runt of the litter.

"He killed the Red Viper!"

"He was almost eight feet tall."

"They called him the Mountain that Rides!"

 _There it is_. "And why did they call him the Mountain that Rides?"

The recruits looked at each other nervously.

A blond boy with greasy hair and pimples covering his face opened his mouth: "He was enormous?"

"Yes," Sandor nodded at the pimply boy. "He was a giant and he was a killer and he was terrifying and I killed him. Now ask me 'how'."

The recruits looked at their trainer dumbfounded, still unsure how to proceed.

"How tall am I? Guess."

"Almost...seven feet..."

"Yes, I am also tall, but not as tall as my brother. I am strong, but not as strong as my brother. So how did I kill him?"

The green boys in front of him were again at a loss.  _Fucking idiots_ , he rolled his eyes once more. _  
_

"I was faster," he began, recounting how he gained his finest victory, "and I was smarter."

His emphasis on the last word made the recruits shift in embarrassment. This batch of recruits had been a bit lower born than most members of the gold cloaks, but between the War of the Five Kings, the Targaryen Reclamation, the Long Night, and the war with the Others, the City Watch had been depleted and desperately need new recruits. The Queen's own army of Unsullied had been spread thin throughout Westeros to maintain the King and Queen's peace until lingering disputes between nobles and fanatics were settled. Now the gold cloaks had been reduced to accepting illiterate smallfolk who had never held a sword, having been suggested by the King based on his time in the Night's Watch.

"You're smallfolk, yes. You're starving, you've never held a weapon, and only a few of you seem to have any strength to speak of, but none of that matters. You've got brains, so use them. You practice, and you do what I say without pause."

The recruits looked at him, their blank stares giving way to something else, that Sandor struggled to recognize or accept.

"Now, you all," he point to the half on his left, who were the tallest of the bunch as he had organized them left to right tallest to shortest for this very lesson, "partner with this half," he pointed to the rest of the recruits on his right, "and practice. The taller partner will be the attacker and the smaller will be the defender. Tomorrow, you switch roles."

Sandor stepped out of the way of the pairings in order to observe them. Watching as the lads inexpertly held the sparring swords and tried to attack or defend. He always felt amused by the green boys whenever he trained them. While he and Sansa were in Braavos, he had been selected by the Sea Lord of Braavos as the master-at-arms to his household guard. That was the first time he had ever been asked to train anyone, and he doubted he could even do that competently. Yet Sansa had believed he could do it, though he did understand what she was doing at the time.  _Puffing me up as she does with every other man she needs to use_. He knew the poisonous thought to be false, but he could not prevent it from floating in his mind.

He was not sure when the bitterness about her began. Sometimes he tried to convince himself that it was leftover from their first stay in King's Landing before all of this scheming started, but he knew that to be false as well. He had accepted her plans, but he never considered how much of an effect they would have on him. There were times he was sure that they had an effect on her, but for all her honesty and openness with him,  _that_ was the last thing she kept closely guarded from him.

He wished she would stop. He wished she would accept him and _only_ him.

"That was a rousing speech," a familiar voice came up behind him and made his hair stand on end. Sandor turned to cast his gaze upon a smirking Meryn Trant and found himself fighting off bile. "Who would have thought the Hound could ever reserve such kind words for a bunch of green boys?"

Despite Sandor's own thoughts on the batch of recruits, he wanted to put his fist in Meryn's face for speaking disparagingly of the lads.

"And I never thought you were one for thoughts," Sandor retorted, wanting Meryn to be on his way as soon as possible.

The smirk disappeared from Meryn's face. "How far you have fallen, Clegane. To be a member of the Kingsguard only to train smallfolk who can't read for the City Watch."

Sandor pointed looked at Meryn's white cloak before he spoke. "Not sure how far I have fallen."

Sandor turned away from Meryn in order to observe the recruits' progress when he spotted Sansa out of the corner of his eye. She stood on the balcony overlooking the training yard scanning for him among the dozens of people. Though he was a good half-foot taller if not more than any of the men in the yard, his leaning against the fence on the circumference of the area made him less noticeable. She continued scanning until, at last, her gaze fell upon him and Meryn. He could see her shoulders tense ever so subtly, though her face revealed nothing. Sandor tore his eyes from her, not wanting to be seen staring at his lady.

"Ahh," Meryn sighed. Sandor glanced at him to see that he had spotted Sansa. "The Queen of Secrets has made an appearance." Sandor could see that Meryn was smirking again.

Sandor's lack of response seemed to have provoked Meryn, as he continued, "You certainly chose a _worthy_ mistress to give your first vow to, Clegane."

"The fuck's that supposed to mean?" Sandor spat at him as he spoke, though Meryn was clearly distracted.

"It means everything I just said."

Sandor glared at Meryn, trying to understand what he was saying. Sandor took Meryn in fully for the first time since his intrusion, and realized that he was wearing the pale leather overcoat of the white cloaks. _Off duty_. "The fuck you want here?"

Meryn's smirk continued as he continued leering at Sansa. "Just out for a walk."

Sandor knew where Meryn's eyes lay, but could not bring himself to look at her right now, not with so many eyes watching. Though it was an everyday occurrence that they be seen together, he knew it would bring her reputation down even more if her sworn shield was seen either gawking at her or staring lustily—however the spectators would spin the action.

Sandor had observed men, himself included, leer at Sansa ever since she was still a child in Winterfell. She was stunning. Eyes like sapphires or the sea, however the poets would choose to describe them. Creamy or milky skin. Curves that would drive any red-blooded  _human_ , let alone man, insane. Hair like fire, the only time he had ever found himself so drawn to fire in almost thirty years. No one could deny that she was far more beautiful than Margaery or Cersei had ever been, even in their prime, even before their time in the black cells. Perhaps only the world-reknowned beauty of the Dragon Queen was comparable to that of Sansa, an ironic competition between ice and fire.

 _The man who could call himself her husband would be lucky man_ , Sandor thought bitterly. _  
_

Meryn's voice drew him out of his thoughts, as did the continuous clang of sparring swords. "Her teats have certainly filled out since she was a child, but I'm sure you've noticed in all your  _travels_ together."

Sandor blinked back at Meryn's implication. "Watch yourself, Trant," Sandor warned, "or I'll make good on...what did you call it, my first vow?"

Meryn's eyes finally left Sansa as he turned to Sandor. "Why does commenting on the beauty of your mistress require your protection?"

"Because you were doing more than comment, and you know that."  _And I've seen you "protect" Joffrey against far less insults._

Sandor saw Meryn glance over the recruits and took the opportunity to look at Sansa one more time, despite his better judgment: she looked tense, with panic written clearly on her expression.  _Even after all this time, all these years..._

He looked to Meryn once more before he decided to put on a show for her and the new recruits. _They could use a mummer's show right now_.

"What say you and I show these green boys what a real fight looks like?" Sandor proposed to the sworn brother.

Meryn's eyes widened ever so slightly at the offer. Sandor was not sure if he saw fear or arrogance in his face, as he so often seemed devoid of any emotion that was not elicited from cruelty, either towards him or at his own hands.

"A fight? In front of these cunts?" Meryn sounded incredulous.

"A current Kingsguard, and former Kingsguard...why not?" Sandor did his best to convince him. "Tell me you've never dreamed of taking down the Hound."

Sansa had once told him that appealing to someone's pride was a surefire way to manipulate them to do what you wanted.

"Alright," Meryn nodded at him, his face still inscrutable.  _I guess she was right._

"Alright, look to me," Sandor shouted at the recruits again. They followed his commands immediately. He made his way to the center of the yard, with Meryn following closely behind him. He could feel Sansa's eyes on him.

"Circle up around me." The young men tripped over each other as they did as he ordered. "This Meryn Trant," Sandor introduced the white cloak without the ceremonial "ser", causing Meryn snap his gaze to Sandor, insulted. "Watch our feet and our posture as we fight. Do the same as we continue tomorrow."

Of course, Sandor did not care if the recruits watched the fight. There was only one person he cared to witness this.  _Maybe two_.

With a circle of green boys surrounding them, Sandor and Meryn stood across from one another as two servants ran to deliver sparring swords. Sandor gripped the sword, feeling the weight of it in his hands before he looked at the balcony again to ensure that Sansa was watching. There she stood, taking deep breaths as looked over the scene. Sandor looked back to Meryn and took in his opponent once more. He was tall, although no where near the same height as Sandor. _Can't even picture a woman wanting to lie with him_ , Sandor thought as also remembered seeing Meryn at Chataya's once. Despite the price of Chataya's girls, Meryn was paid well by the Lannisters for his loyalty, despite his vows.

Meryn tossed his sparring weapon from hand to hand before her looked up to Sandor and grinned. Sandor grinned back, knowing that any smile on his scarred face would scare the boys watching.  _They should be scarred. Especially now_.

The two men began to circle one another. Sandor openly looked Meryn up and down, hoping his opponent would see the action and be afraid. _What a guard he makes_. Meryn's droopy eyes did nothing to instill fear in Sandor, though he could see wonder in the eyes of the onlookers.  _Fucking cunts, never seen a fight between real men before_. Meryn's feet shifted, although the rest of his body did not. Sandor continued on, nonplussed; he enjoyed waiting out other fighters and grating on their nerves. Though Meryn was not one for nervousness, he could be impulsive when there was no one to order him about.  _Fucking fool. How anyone would want him is beyond me_. Sandor still could not believe that Meryn was a member of the Kingsguard.  _Meryn fucking Trant. A gnat, if there ever was one_.

They circled until Meryn's patience could not win out any longer, and he made a move to strike. Sandor blocked the blow without much effort and pushed the sword from him to make Meryn lose his footing. His plan worked as Meryn stumbled to regain his balance. Meryn looked angered at the single move from Sandor, and sought to strike again, which Sandor deftly met. Sword held against sword, Meryn pushed forward, in order to approach Sandor.

"Do you suppose your  _lady_ would favor me if I beat you today?" Meryn attempted to taunt him, but Sandor could not help but feel a hint of fear at the comment.

"I think  _my_ lady would sooner have toads protect her than  _you_." Sandor pushed Meryn away again and then swinging at him before he could correct himself.

Meryn barely managed to block the sword before if would have hit him in the hear.  _A painful hit._ Meryn pushed Sandor away.

Then he belted out a laugh, which took Sandor and the observers by surprise. "Uhh...it is not protection that she would want, I'd wager," Meryn jested, or at least Sandor hoped he did. Feeling the rage swell up inside of him, Sandor lunged at Meryn with a strike and quick withdrawl before hitting him in the side and the face in two quick moves. Meryn dropped his sword in shock at the quick moves Sandor made, giving Sandor a chance for further revenge. Sandor struck twice, three more, four more times with the wooden sword to inflict further damage on the man who had insulted Sansa Stark. Sandor dropped his sword as well so he could free his hands for further attacks. Meryn was lying on the ground, shocked at the hit to the side of his face, when Sandor grabbed his leather overcoat to lift him slightly from the ground.

"You've no right to speak of her," Sandor said before he began punching Meryn in the face. Meryn quickly kicked Sandor in the thigh, where it was suspected by many that he had a weak spot, to earn a reprieve from the blows. Sandor stumbled backward as Meryn rose from the dirt and charged at him, tackling him in the process. Meryn hit Sandor in the chest, almost knocking all of the air out his lungs. Meryn straddled Sandor as he attempted to punch the man known throughout the realm as the Hound.  _Fool_. Sandor pushed Meryn off after he hit him a few times. Both men stood, Meryn with a split lip while Sandor appeared unharmed. Meryn looked him up and down to assess for any additional weakness or pain, but seeing known became even angrier. He charged Sandor again, but Sandor met the rush with a well-timed swing of his arm. He heard a  _crunch_ and suspected, no, _hoped_  that he had broken Meryn's nose. While Meryn's was turned away from him with his left hand clutching his face, Sandor march to the man with such purpose that he could hear the recruits take in a deep, collective breath. Grabbing Meryn's shoulder to turn him around, Sandor got a better look at his face to confirm that he hand broken the man's nose. Meryn's droopy eyes once again looked incredulously at Sandor.  _As if he could not believe that I could bring him harm_.

Sandor held on to Meryn's overcoat for a moment and saw Sansa calmly watching the scene in his peripheral vision.  _How she can watch me be such a brute to him is beyond me_. Meryn grabbed Sandor's hand, digging fingernails into his fist. Sandor growled at the action, and threw Meryn up against the brick wall at the far side of the training yard. Meryn's eyes widened yet again, making his droopy eyes look like saucers overflowing with water. He looked like an imbecile, and Sandor wanted to break him. He pulled his other fist out from his body in order to inflict more damage of this man, this utter  _vermin_ in order to show him that he could do or speak of such things about Sansa Stark. Sandor struck once, twice, three more times before Meryn's eyelid was bleeding and already starting to swell. The crowd began to exhale and starting expressing disgust at the fight before theme. Sandor could hear cries, and not just from the recruits, but those belonging to women as well. From the glances Meryn gave to the surrounding onlookers, Sandor knew that they had new observers to take into account. Sandor looked up from Meryn to take in everyone who was watching, but only looked to the little bird to gauge her disappointment in him. Her face revealed nothing. _  
_

Without another glance to anyone, including Meryn, Sandor loosened his grip on him and dropped him to the ground. Sandor could not tear his gaze from Sansa. The silence in and around the training yard was deafening, as Sandor felt the little goodwill held for him due to his service to Sansa evaporating as the spectators looked on. He felt shame, maybe embarrassment, but he still could not bring himself to look away from his little bird, the one woman who could absolve of him of this event. _No one else matters. No one but her_. It was only moments like this--these desperate moments in which he needed to feel forgiveness or understanding—that he remembered that fact; it was all the other times when he doubted that same notion. _  
_

The silence still weighed in the area until Meryn dared to break it with his own self-righteous anger in order to save face.

"Fucking brute," Meryn shouted at him. "Just like your fucking brother."

Sandor turned to him, spitting before he paused to think of what to say. "If I was like my brother, you would no longer have a face."

Sandor gave Meryn once last glare before he turned his heels to exit the training yard. The recruits made quick work of separating and making a pathway of escape for him.  _Perhaps the only time today they've used their brains_. Sandor paced himself as he left the spectacle, hoping that his patience would prevent anyone from knowing the great shame that he felt at the moment. He made sure that he did not look up to the balcony again, as he did not want to see the look on Sansa's face at witnessing his retreat.

He did not stop moving, not for the courier who attempted to inquire on some such information, not for the maids carrying trays of food, not for Ser Humfrey Hightower, another member of the Kingsguard, who wanted to ask him to train later that week. The irony was not lost him. He reached his chambers, sparsely decorated since he was not one for expressing himself in designing living quarters. That and he spent most nights in Sansa's chambers.  _How we've managed to keep_ that _secret is a mystery, though_.

He took off his jerkin and tunic as he made his way to his washbasin in order to wash himself of the sweat from the sparring, though he knew what had just occurred was a step beyond simple sparring. He grabbed a towel to wipe off the remaining drops of water. He was wiping his arms dry when he heard his door open.

Sansa swept into his room and barred the door behind her. She turned around with her back against the door, her face revealing nothing.

"What do you want, little bird?" he rasped his inquiry without looking at her, moving on to dry his chest.

" _That_ is an interesting question," she stated simply, still giving nothing away.

"That is rich coming from you," he sighed, his bitterness coming through clearly.

"From me?"

"Yes, from you."

"Sandor, you just nearly beat Ser Meryn—"

"Oh, it's _Ser_ Meryn? He used to beat you!"

"Yes, at the commands of another king in another time."

"Did _I_ ever hit you?"

"Were you ever commanded to hit me?"

"Enough!" he shouted as he threw his towel into the washbasin. No, he had never hit her, but he still found ways to be...whatever it was he was to her back then. He found ways to be cruel to her, to push her away because of the terror of feeling something for someone.

Yet he had been kind too. Preventing her from pushing Joffrey, lying for her at Joffrey's nameday tourney, telling Joffrey's enough was enough when the king had order Meryn Trant, _Meryn fucking Trant_ , to strip her in front of court, covering her with his cloak when she had been naked, shielding her from Boros Blount, offering to take her away from King's Landing, actually fleeing with her from the Eyrie and Baelish, protecting her in Braavos, and returning her to Westeros. He had done anything and everything in his power to make sure she would live to see another day, to be worthy of her. Yet here he was, washing himself after beating a man bloody for speaking crudely of her, one of the very men who once abused her under another king, one who had spoken ill of her and imagined all manners of perversions with Sansa at the forefront of such fantasies.

"You know why I did what I did," Sandor enunciated each word so she would stop berating him for his actions.

"Do I?" she fought right back, not allowing him to win this argument.

"Yes, you do!" he shouted at her. "How dare you tell me what I did was wrong! Everything I do, I do for you, and all I get in return in your disappointment and displeasure."

"Is that all you get? Do I not give myself to you as well as my disappointment?" she spewed angry words at him as he did to her, refusing to back down from his emotions.

"Yes, I get you  _most_ nights, but not all of them, and certainly not all of you."

Sansa shuddered slightly, a shiver that could escape anyone else's notice, but not his. Despite the gesture, her face was still schooled into a mask of indifference. Though he has known her since she was just a girl, even though he should know better than anyone that her indifference means nothing but years of practice, he wanted more than just indifference at this moment.

"Tell me it means nothing! Prove to me that I have all of you!"

Sansa did not look at him and she simply shook her head, though her voice wavered as she spoke. "I don't know what else to do for you!"

Sandor looked at her incredulously.  _She matters to me more than anyone else ever has, and I believe in her more than anyone else ever could, and she can still be a daft little bird_.

He lunged at Sansa, and she did not react even when his lips met hers. His passion and anger showed equally as she opened her mouth to accept his tongue. She began to move her body, pressing herself against him and brushing her fingers in his hair. He moaned as he felt her fingernails gently touch against his scalp.

 _No, she needs to be the one moaning right now_ , he told himself as he grabbed her thighs and lifted her against him, feeling himself get hard as he felt the heat from between her legs. Understanding his actions, she wrapped her legs around his waist and ground slightly against his cock as he walked them over to his bed, but continued standing with her wrapped around him when they arrived. Not letting her go, he continued their kiss as he caressed her shoulders and ghosted his hands and fingers down her arms, sending a noticeable shiver down her spine. He knew she loved long caresses down her limbs and her torso. It made her melt in his arms whenever he did it.  _How many others know this about her?_ The thought was enough to drive him to action once again as his hand found her ankle and starting sliding under her skirts up her calf and then thigh. He felt a shiver again and felt encouraged to continue. His hand eventually found its way to her hip, where he felt her smallclothes prevent him from further contact. He shifted his hands along the length of where her hip meets her thigh to get to the mysterious place between her legs, the place that brought both him and her such pleasure in their months of coupling. He rubbed his right hand against her woman's place to feel the dampness in the cloth, as his left moved from her thigh to her bottom, where he gripped her firmly, eliciting another moan for her mouth. The vibrations against his lips made his cock even harder.

With his length helplessly pressed against her thigh and woman's place, Sansa shifted so he would release her from his waist. He let go of her behind, moving his hand to her covered breast as she slid down his body, making him even harder. Now freed from his grasp, she reached in between them to unlace his breeches, her finger brushing his cock every so slightly, making him shiver in anticipation. Completely undone, she moved aside the cloth for easier access and bent over to lick the tip of his cock, eliciting another moan from him. Slowly, she wrapped her lips around him, not daring to taking him fully just yet. He closed his eyes as he released the tension in his neck, dropping his head back so that he faced the ceiling. He let himself get lost in the feeling of her mouth enveloping  _him_ , with her tongue ever so lightly moving her tongue around the head of his manhood.

 _No_ , he reminded himself,  _not this_.  _Not now._ He touched the side of her face to push her away from his cock. She followed his silent command, rising as he reached his other hand to the side of his head. Kissing once again, even more desperately than before, he guided her to the bed, gently but hurriedly pushing her back against the mattress. She did as he silently instructed, parting her legs as he began crawling above her. She was submissive to him now, far more submissive than she was in the light of day. As much as he wanted her to do as he desired, there was still that part of him that wanted the wolf to come out right now and start telling him what to do.

He reached under her skirts again, finding her smallclothes and dragging them down her legs. He threw them across his room once the underthings passed her feet. Her legs parted once more for him as he positioned himself between her legs, the both of them grabbing anxiously at her skirts to get them out of their way. He reached down to his cock, rubbing it once then twice and bringing himself to her entrance, brushing his tip against from her nub to entrance to arse, before retracing the line he made. Her breath hitched, in the way that he loved. He pushed inside her, feeling the shiver that went down her spine as he did. Her muscles squeezed around him. It was his turn to shiver and moan now. As much as he wanted to be the one in power when he was inside of her, he knew that even if he was on top, he was at her mercy. He began thrusting slowly, seeing her eyes close and lips part as she enjoyed the feeling of him moving in her. He heard her moan, letting him know that he was pleasing her and prompting him to start thrusting harder.

"Ahhh," a low sound came from her mouth.  _Fuck._  His thrusts became even more desperate as he realized how much he wanted to erase the past hour, past day out of her mind.  _Maybe she can forget, everything I've done, everything she's done_.

As if she sensed his intentions, she pushed him off of her and he slipped out of her as she forced him onto his back. She followed her movement as she climbed on top of him and lowered herself onto him, as she surrounded him once more. Instead of moving her hips up and down the length of him as she usually did, she instead moved her hips back forth, grinding her nub against his pelvis and causing a mewling sound to escape her lips. Her movements numbed him to all thought as he felt her woman's place rub against his cock and watched her move on top of him for both of their pleasure. The sight of her taking her pleasure from him reminded him of the simpler times when they coupled because they wanted to fuck each other. He could not believe that this was such a time. _She_ was the one _he_ was trying to reach, so he grabbed her hips and held her to him as he rose from his lying on his back. She grasped his shoulders and gasped at the movement, locking eyes with him as got to his knees without slipping out of her again, the loss of contact being painful for both of them at this point. With her legs wrapped around his hips and him on his knees, he continued his thrusting, fixating his gaze onto her breasts, seeing how his movements caused her cleavage to jiggle in the most enticing manner. He reached a hand into her dress, grabbing a breast with his entire palm before focusing two of his fingers on an already sensitized nipple.

Shivering again at his attentions, she grabbed his hand and placed it on her face. While keeping one hand on his shoulder, she reached her other one for his face and brought their lips together, finding another way to connect them. He stilled as he got lost in her kisses, forgetting everything he wanted her to know. When the kiss broke, he brought her face away from his and looked into his eyes.

"Sandor..." she moaned his named as she rubbed her nub against his pelvis once more, reminding him to start moving again. He shifted their bodies once more, laying her again against the bed and following her closely so as not to lose contact where they were joined. With her lying on the bed spreadeagled though covered by her gown, and him between her legs with his breaches half way down his thighs, he resumed moving inside of her, faster than before.

As his thrusts became more erratic, her moans became more frequent, and he could tell by the look on her face—her eyes fluttering open and staring into his, her hands grabbing his neck and pulling to bring him even closer to her—that she was close to her release. He reached between their bodies to where they were joined, touching the nub that she had showed him early on in their relationship. He touched her at the pressure and speed that he knew she liked to bring her even closer, hoping she would get there before he lost control.

"Unnnhhhh." The deepened noises from her throat told him all he needed to, as he could feel her clench around him uncontrollably, her eyes closed and her back arching, giving him a view of her cleavage that he loved.  _Though I would like it more if her teats were uncovered and nothing were between us_. He spilled inside of her at the thought of her naked and pressed flush against his own naked body, an enticing and comfort idea all at the same time. He thrusted a few more times, hoping his continued hardness would bring her continued pleasure. She fell nearly limp in his arms, although, from the way her fingernails dug into his neck, he knew that she was still feeling the effects of her release. He started to feel himself soften inside of her, stilling his movements as he became more sensitive to any and all touch. _  
_

He stopped himself from collapsing on top of her, burying his head into her neck and smelling her hair as he held his upper body from crushing her. She lessened her grip on his neck as she began to run her fingers down his back and shoulders.

A moment passed before she pushed him from her, though she did not bother to fix her skirts to cover herself as she fell onto her back. She never cared for propriety after they coupled, something he loved. Perfect Sansa Stark with her cunt exposed, only for him. _Not anymore_.

As he lay on his back next to her, not bothering to cover himself either, he looked at her, seeing her jaw tighten and lips purse.

"What's wrong, little bird? Didn't enjoy your fuck?" He knew his words would anger her, but he did not care.  _Maybe she understood and I won't have to care._ _  
_

"A 'fuck' was it?" she spat back at him. She lifted her torso from the bed, rubbing her face once she was upright. "What were you hoping to do? Fuck the memory of last night away?"

She got up from the bed, fixing her skirts as she did, and he felt something inside of him darken at the sight. She walked over to the washbasin, picking up the towel he had used earlier and dropping it on the wood table. She lifted one side of her skirt, the side that was away from his view, and scooped a hand in the bowl before splashing water on her woman's place. He felt his stomach drop as he watched her wash herself.

"What are you doing tonight?" he asked darkly, resigning himself to the answer he knew she would give.

She turned to him after cleaning herself to her approval, before she acknowledged his fears: "I have an appointment."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my first fight scene AND sex scene, so forgive the effort. I'm learning! I'm also a bit into *my* cups right now, TBH. #sorrynotsorry. I had to get the smut written!
> 
> All that being said, the wine made it so editing was most likely inefficient. In other words, edits are welcome right now.


	7. Sandor IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my original plan was to write abut Sansa's night and reveal some of her plans, but I realized that a Sandor POV was structurally necessary before I do anything more.

Sandor walked the halls of the Red Keep trying to numb himself to his feelings. He pushed, pushed, pushed the memories of the past few hours out of his mind so he could do what he did best: serve obediently.

"I need you to go to Chataya's," Sansa had told him, fidgeting with her finger nails as she did.

"Do you need to fuck someone else while I'm there?" He had intended to hurt her, and despite the blank stare that she had shot at him, he knew he had succeeded.

"I need you to be seen when you go," she had continued, ignoring his question altogether. "Be seen and be heard, but make it look like you are trying to be secretive."

For months, years perhaps, it had pained him to see the little bird, _his_ little bird, become such a manipulative person.  _Seen and heard, but not too much...where have I heard that before?_ He often wondered if it would hurt Sansa to know how much of a Lannister she had truly become, despite circumstances.

"If people see you, try to act nonchalant," she had pressed further, "but be careful—it would not do for anyone to see through you..."

"As you wish,  _my lady_ ," he again wanted to hurt, willing his words to do what he would never dare inflict physically.

Despite his true desire, despite that ever fiber of his being want to take Sansa by the shoulders and shake her, get the silly games out of her mind by force if he cannot get her to see reason, despite everything he  _really_ wanted, he acquiesced to her request, and was on his way to Chataya's.

He felt the crisp air of a spring night surround him as soon as he exited the Red Keep. Though a faint chill was in the air, it was only the remnants of the long winter that preceded. Though the city still reeked of shit on this cool night, he felt far more at peace outside the castle than inside.  _Nothing so foul as those fucking schemers_ , he thought.  _And now the little bird could be the worst of them all._

He remembered back to a different time under a different king when Littlefinger, Varys, and Cersei were the main manipulators in the capitol. Despite those three populating the court back then, it seemed almost worse now that Sansa had seemed to best them all. She was no longer a pawn of Littelfinger's and perhaps had far greater plans than even he did. Varys was no longer the master of whispers, having served too many kings to be considered a worthy spymaster and choosing to follow the Young Dragon rather than Daenerys.  _Though not enough of a Targaryen to earn a dragon_ , Sandor sniggered at the thought of being denied a pet that matched one's House sigil.

Then there was Cersei. Cersei who languished in the Black Cells. Though she had been given treatment fair to a woman of her station, as Sansa had seen to that as soon as she gained enough influence in the capitol, she had proven to be madder than Maegor. Though she appeared whole, Sandor knew from Sansa's testimony that the former Queen was a just a shadow of her former self, having been shattered after losing her children and her superiority. He had heard about the walk of penance they made her do, and despite all of the ill thoughts he had towards the Lannister woman, he could not help but pity her for being stripped and paraded through the streets. He thought back to bread riots over a decade ago when the smallfolk were ready to tear Sansa apart, only imagining the treatment Cersei received when she was at their gawking mercy.  _They barely knew the little bird and wanted to rape her. What they would have done to Cersei if the septas were not there..._

Sandor was ripped from his thoughts was he crossed the drawbridge and entered the city, the true city, and found himself walking along the familiar Street of Silk to Chataya's.  _Best not think on it._

Laughter arose from the taverns and brothels that lay on both sides of the street. Revelry and merriment in the King and Queen's peace suited the street, far more than it did under the reign of the whoremonger Robert Baratheon. _Truly, what a surprise that is._ It seemed next to impossible that prostitution and drinking were at an all time high under the co-rulers Jon and Daenerys rather than under that fat king.

Sandor had once been among those enjoying wine and women on Street of Silk. Now he only went for wine, at the little bird's request of course. She had insisted that he still be seen in order for courtiers to not gossip about them. "If you suddenly stop going to the Street of Silk, then they will assume you are laying with someone else," she had claimed. Though he had assured her that no one at court wonders who he fucks, she would not relent. Sometimes, after drinking more wine than he should have, he would wonder if she told him to go in hopes that he would fuck someone else.

Sandor's stride lessened as he spotted the red door that marked the entrance to expensive brothel. He paused outside, feeling his breath catch and anxiety rise as his hand reached for the knob. Before anyone noticed his lingered, he grabbed the handle and twisted his writer to enter the establishment.

Inside, Sandor saw the usual mosaic on the floor, and the exotic smells surrounded him. Chataya was known for putting such efforts into the ambience of her brothel. Glancing at the faces in the common room, Sandor saw a handful of lords from the Reach and from Dorne, some of whom also saw him.  _Just as she wanted_. Sandor tasted the bitterness in his mouth.

Standing awkwardly in the common room, hoping none of the whores would approach him, Sandor suddenly felt at a loss. He shook his head,  _As if I've never been in a whorehouse before, least of all this one._

He felt a delicate hand gingerly touch his armored shoulder. Rather than turn his head, he spied the dark skin and sandalwood eyes of the Summer Islander whom he once knew so well. She looked older, as anyone would after a decade that included the Long Night, but she still possessed the grace and beauty she always had. It almost seemed strange that such a graceful beauty could be a brothel owner and former whore, but Sandor thought better of it and reminded himself that looks can be deceiving.

"Ahh, the Hound has found himself back in my humble establishment, has he?" she cooed into his ear, though she was far from it as he was still well over a foot taller than her. "It has been a long time."

He looked down sheepishly at her comment, unsure why he suddenly felt nervous in a place he had never been nervous before.

Chataya calmly giggled, the noise of a woman used to seducing with a glance. "Stoic as usual, I see."

Sandor glanced up and met her eyes. "I am here on business."

"I would hope so," she said, her voice sounding like honeywine with her exotic Summer Islander accent. "You used to be such a loyal customer. I have missed your presence here."

Sandor snorted, although he meant no ill will toward her. She missed his purse, and he knew that before and he knew it at that moment. He never held any delusions about what the relationship between a whore and her customer was. He had always asked Chataya to not pretend otherwise, but she always treated him as any other customer. He supposed he should have been grateful for such equity, but the honest man in him never liked the pretense that whores used. He knew they would never touch him, the scarred giant of Lannister, the brother of the monstrous Mountain, if he had not paid them. In that moment, he felt a suddenly felt grateful for Sansa, the only woman who ever touched him of her own free will, though he knew deep down that she had her own reasons for doing so. In some ways, the propriety of Chataya reminded him of that of Sansa. His head filled with bitter laughter as he thought of the comparison.

"Do you want your usual?" she smiled at him, hoping to entice him with the knowledge that she remembered his preferences even after ten years. "Obviously, I have a several new redheads since you were last here, but I am certain they will all be to your liking."

"Not that kind of business." His words were short and strangely rushed for a man who kept prolonging his time there. He had been seen by a few lords, all who knew he was Sansa's shield, but he did not want them to overhear that he used to ask for redheaded whores to satisfy his lusts once upon a time. While he did not mean to dawdle, he did not look forward to returning to the Red Keep while Sansa was at her appointment.

Chataya smirked, clearly bemused that he would not be paying for any services. At her expression, Sandor reached for the bag of coins on her belt, hoping to maintain her attention with the purse.

"I still have need for information, and coin to pay for it."

"You know I do not reveal many secrets, Clegane," Chataya mouth formed a thin smile, though she never took her eyes off of the purse. "You of all people know how much I value discretion in my business. That is why my clients prefer me over Littlefinger. Or did. Which reminds me, how is your mistress?"

Her dark eyes sparkled with the question, and he knew what she was playing at. "I am here on her business."

"Is that so?" Chataya smiled knowingly, though she could not possibly know why he was there.

"Have any of your girls been servicing anyone in White Sword Tower?" He repeated the lines that Sansa had told him to ask. He reached into the purse and gave her a golden dragon, an awfully high reward for the information of a whore, even one such as Chataya. She accepted the coin and flipped it over her fingers playfully. She placed the money in a hidden pocket on her dress and sighed before looking back to Sandor.

Chataya laughed again. " _Anyone_ in White Sword Tower? You know as well as I do who lives in White Sword Tower, and they are sworn to celibacy." The glint in her eye gave her away immediately.

"And we all know that you do not service maesters or septons, either. It was foolish of me to ask," he felt a twisted sense of pride at his response, knowing Sansa would be proud of his quick thinking, before the self-loathing returned. He was playing the games that he had always witnessed but always despised. He was playing them for  _her_. All for his little bird.

Chataya remained smiling, although a faint look of respect flashed across her foreign features. "Again, Clegane. Discretion is why I have the most lucrative brothel in King's Landing. I'll jeopardize that for anything, even for the goodwill of...your mistress."

"You accepted the money, but gave nothing in return?" Sandor responded flatly, not caring to feign anger. He knew it did not matter what information he gathered. He was only doing as Sansa had asked, pleaded almost. Yet he knew that he needed to put up an argument in case any ears were listening in on the conversation. Sansa needed him to be heard and seen, so that was he would do.

"You gave me the money even after I told you that I keep the secrets of my customers," Chataya countered. Her sweet smile remained on her face through their discussion.

He nodded, keeping his expression blank. He had done what Sansa asked him to do. He had no need to remain there, surrounded by whores and lords looking to get their cocks sucked, and yet he did not want to leave.

"At the same time, you have always been a good client. You never hurt my girls or mistreated them in any way, despite your...ample charms, as I am told." Sandor shifted uncomfortably at her attempted flattery. "I would happily give you a few hours with any girl of your choosing. Perhaps, I can show you those redheads now?"

He kept his expression blank, not wanting Chataya to read his thoughts anymore than she already had. _Can't go back now...not while she's...at an appointment._  At that moment, more than his partially lame leg or his body from the fight with Meryn, Sandor felt more pain at the thought of Sansa in the Red Keep than anything else. He couldn't go back, not while she was there. But what else was he to do? _  
_

He glanced at Chataya, having kept his eyes downcast at her offer. She was smirking again, like she had all the secrets in King's Landing, though Sandor knew better. For all of her charms and intelligence, Chataya was not Littlefinger. There was a reason Sandor only patroned Chataya and not Littlefinger. While he never wanted his money to go into the pockets of Petyr Baelish even before everything happened, Sandor realized, after the first dream he ever had about Sansa, after Ned Stark's head been removed from his body due to the machinations of Littlefinger, after he asked for a specific prostitute rather than his usual lack of preference, that he could never go to one of Littlefinger's brothels as long as he was requesting the company of whores with red hair. Chataya did in fact keep the discretion of her customers, and she would never betray the numerous secrets that she did know.  _Though she knows far less than she acts like she does. Sansa could beat her into submission with all of the secrets she's learned._

He glanced away from her again, thinking on the offer. _Please. Where is Sansa right now? She wouldn't care if you fucked some nameless wench._  He tried to picture himself rutting into a whore, the first whore he would have had since he was in Braavos, since before Sansa asked him into her bed. He tried to imagine what it would be like, what it could be like, but all he could conjure were the memories of the other whores he had fucked. Nameless, faceless women on their knees and bent over in from him with their arses on display as he pounded endlessly in order to get his release. Despite what he imagined Sansa was doing at that moment, he could not bring himself to do anything. He didn't want to thrust meaninglessly into some woman he paid to touch him. He wanted Sansa. He wanted her kisses and her mouth, her touch and her hands and her fingers. He wanted her cunt and to feel her muscles tighten around his cock when she climaxed. He wanted her eyes, the same eyes that dared to look him in the face when they coupled. He wanted all of her. It pained him to know in his marrow that he had none of her.

Sandor shuffled his feet once more before shaking his head. "No," he felt hollow as the words left his mouth, as though his refusal meant nothing. "Keep the gold. I do not want a whore."

For the first time since he had met the woman, Chataya looked surprised. He turned from her, taking one last look around the common room, seeing new lords populate the room. A few glanced at him absently, though he could tell from their eyes that they still registered who he was. He pushed past a gaggle of prostitutes, **not ungently*** , standing close to the door, silk robes adorning their varying-sized curves, and grabbed the handle once more, only this time to leave.

When he smelled the air of the city, he was once again surprised by the spring chill. _Could be a night for a fire_ , he thought, not relishing the idea of having to start one on his own. Usually, on cold nights, he would sleep cuddled up to Sansa, her head on his right arm while his left one held her body against his chest. Though he'd face many winters in his life, and though he had long known that a woman could keep the cold at bay, he learned during the Long Night that lying next to Sansa was by far the best warmth he had ever known. _And just where is your little bird?_ The familiar bitter taste of jealousy and anger returned to his mouth. He spat onto the street, hoping that the jealousy and anger would leave him, even though he should know better.

 _All you do for her...all you have done and all that you still do_ , the angry voice that used to permeate his head said. Despite what Elder Brother had done for him on the Quiet Isle, he found the voice getting stronger with each day lately. _No longer a Lannister man...at least not technically, and all you are is s_ _till just a loyal dog. Nothing more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright...I know this was a slow chapter, especially when I said last week that this would be a Sansa POV, but there is a lot of character study here that is important (but hey, I'm a writer; I always think character study is important).
> 
> And I do apologize for all the telling as opposed to showing. I really struggle with that and am actively working on how to better show through dialogue than tell in clunky expository inner monologues.
> 
> Lastly, I need to acknowledge GRRM and the fine people at awoiaf.westeros.org for the detailed world of ice and fire; GRRM for creating it and westeros.org for creating such a wonderful encyclopedia of it. It has been a huge help to me in minimizing the creation original characters (which I personally do not like to do) and making sure I portrayed Chataya and her brothel canonically.
> 
> *Quote from GRRM's A Clash of Kings (book 2 of ASOIAF)


	8. Sansa IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, the onion is being peeled, and it may make you cry. In this chapter, you will discover what Sansa does at her appointments, so be warned about your suspicions possibly being confirmed. If you do not want to continue reading, you are welcome to do so, but please refrain from leaving hurtful comments.
> 
> In addition, I have created a disclaimer in my first chapter before the text which more broadly explains what I just wrote and explains some decisions I made about tagging. You are welcome to investigate if you want to know more. If you have any doubts, I highly suggest that you read the disclaimer.

"Do you need to fuck someone else?"

Sandor's words rang threw Sansa's head as she found her way to White Sword Tower. She had fought off the pang in her chest when she heard the jab and kept her features blank. She could not afford to feel anything right now.

Wearing her pink silk gown, from the same fabric as the gown she wore on the day she was stripped at court, but refashioned into the Highgarden style, Sansa's hands smoothed fabric that needed no altering. She chose the dress specifically for her appointment that night, knowing that no one but herself would understand the significance of the choice.

 _Not no one_ , she pondered.

 _Stop_.

She could not do this to herself, not then, not ever. She needed to numb herself to it. She needed to fend of these thoughts if she wanted to accomplish everything she set out to do. As Petyr once told her, the endgame is all that matters; she knew she needed to do everything she could to reach hers.

Continuing on to her destination, Sansa continued to push all thoughts of her afternoon with Sandor and leave only the skills that Petyr taught her.  _I have to. I must do this_.

She had waited until late to do this. She had remained awake as the rest of the castle and city fell asleep, leaving only the harlots and their patrons to revel in the dark.  _If the shoe fits_ , Sansa laughed bitterly as she accepted the title of harlot for herself, knowing she could not deny the accusation when she used it against herself. It was only with that word that she could claim the night as her own. It was the reason she waited until past midnight to exit her chambers and wander the corridors with only the shadows of statues as her company. Not she wanted anyone else's company. She preferred to be alone on nights such as this. It made the shame less burdensome.

Reaching final step on the stairwell, Sansa had at long last arrived at a specific door in White Sword Tower, the door she had familiarized herself with a few times before during her two previous visits to the quarters of the Kingsguard. With all that remained of the white cloaks sworn into the brotherhood under the short-lived Baratheon dynasty, only one remained, and he was the man with whom Sansa had business to do.

Raising her fist, Sansa knocked against the oak door. She heard steps and the mumblings of a bitter man, a sore loser. The latch clicked, the door opening to reveal the body of its inhabitant, and Sansa saw the look of anger on his face.

"Good evening, Ser Meryn," Sansa said, though she did not smile as she knew the knight would not want to see such an expression. His nose was clearly broken, his lip split, and one of his eyes was dark and swollen shut. He looked angry, though Sansa knew better than to leave him. He wanted her, that much had been proven in her prior visits, and he would not send her away even though it was her sworn shield who had done this to him.

"My lady," Meryn spat poisonously, though Sansa knew she was in no danger. There was a certain arrogance clear on his features and look of cruel lust in his open eye. He moved from the opening and gave enough space for Sansa to fit through, silently bidding her to enter. Keeping her eyes locked on his, she entered the room, swaying her hips seductively as she passed him. Though his gaze did not falter, she knew had noted her movements by the subtle shift in his posture. His blood was up, or it would be soon, at least. She turned to face him as soon as her entire body was in the room and a safe distance from the door.

"I thought you could use a gentle hand, after your day," Sansa offered a small condolence to the man. Meryn grimaced with the few muscles mobile enough in his face.

"It pleases me that you feel it necessary to tend to my wounds," the cruel knight sneered. "It was your sworn shield who attacked me, after all."

Though there was no irony in his voice, Sansa could not help but feel it as she kept her features still and demeanor calm.

"I am aware of that fact, Ser Meryn," Sansa's voice took a maternal quality as she attempted to soothe the knight. "I only wish to mend the grievance. You know how important you are to the mistress of whispers. How could I sleep knowing you could be hurt by the actions of a man in my service?"

She had chosen her words carefully, remembering that she had never revealed her role in the small council to him before. She had never really confirmed it to anyone before, save for Sandor.

"He needs to be punished for his actions," Meryn pushed the matter, seeming to have missed her admission. "He savagely attacked _me_ , one of the sworn knights of the Kingsguard. Such slights should not go unpunished."

"I assure you, Ser Barristan has already arranged a meeting with me on the morrow to discuss how to proceed with my shield," Sansa gave a nurturing smile to the knight as she spoke. "But surely, a sworn brother of the Kingsguard need not be  _hurt_ by such slights, nor would I expect you to be taken out of the field for long. You're the knight. The one who outlasted so many other sworn brothers."

He scoffed at her, but did not turn away. He wanted more. He had not the skills to peacock, so Sansa must do it for him. For him and for his damaged ego.

"Why do react as such, my lord?" Sansa reached for him and placed a delicate hand on his jaw to where there was no bruising, and brought her other hand to his chest, careful to avoid the ribs that she had seen Sandor strike earlier that day. "Only Ser Barristan has served for longer, and even his service was interrupted. Do not let the actions of one man keep you from doing what you do best."

Meryn's one working eye widened slightly, and she could see his pupil grow larger. Another one of Petyr's invaluable lessons, aside from explaining how words were just as seductive if not more so than actions, the physical signs of arousal. In her previous encounters with Meryn, she had tested what touches he liked and disliked, what compliments puffed him up the most. His responses reminded Sansa vaguely of Mace Tyrell and the nickname Lady Olenna gave him.

She moved her hand from his chest and gently grazed over his injured ribs to his stomach. He enjoyed it when she teased his stomach, she had discovered.

This was the action that prompted Meryn to close his eye, and Sansa knew it was the moment to move forward. She glided her hand lower and began to loosen the laces of his breeches. She drew her face to his and breathed against his neck. Sansa's height worked in her favor here, allowing her to reasonably avoid his face and chest. The face was too intimate in her mind, and the chest...she preferred to bury her face into Sandor's chest when she found her release. She did not want to give that to anyone else, even if it was only a gesture and not an instinct with the knight.

Suddenly, he grabbed her hands as one of them attempted to reach into his breeches. Surprise seized Sansa's mind, though her face revealed nothing.

"My lord?" Sansa raised an eyebrow and smiled wickedly at the knight, attempting to move past whatever took over him.

"Why do you come here?" his cruel eyes looked puzzled, examining her carefully though Sansa could see the lust remained. "Why _have_ you been coming here?"

Though still shocked that Meryn was not the completely arrogant fool she had thought him to be, Sansa let one side of her mouth turn up. She had expected this move for some time, but when he failed to ask this question during her first appearance in his bedchamber, she had believed him to be so self-important that he would not question her actions. Of course, she had crafted an answer when her plans became a reality, when Sandor accepted everything she had revealed to him that night, when she began to trust him more deeply than she had trusted anyone since she watched her father's head had roll down the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor.

 _Stop_. She could not dwell on the past. She could not dwell on emotion. Her father, the Stark name, Sandor...these were the reasons she carried on, the reasons she plotted her master plan, but they were also the reasons she could falter. The carefully-acted crooked smile had left her face when she realized she was thinking of her father, of her lover, and she briefly felt panic when she thought what Ser Meryn would think of the reaction before she thought of how she could play off the smirk that disappeared.

"My lord," Sansa gently removed her hands from his and turned from him, looking down as she did. "Do you remember the day of the Kingsguard melee shortly after the coronation? The presentation to display the strength of the guardians of the new king and queen?" That much was true. The small council had planned a tourney to celebrate the coronation and the Targaryen Reclamation, and there was a special section of the event dedicated to a Kingsguard presentation, especially since Ser Renly Norcross and Brienne of Tarth had been newly anointed members.

He nodded while hiding his own eagerness to hear her response. It was then that Sansa knew he was eating out of the palm of her hand.

"You duelled with Ser Hobber, one of the finest bachelors in the realm before he took his vows." This was false. She did not hate Ser Hobber, but she did not trust him nor did she find him to be a man who inspired passion in anyone. He had only been installed on the Kingsguard after Ser Loras perished on Dragonstone. The Tyrells needed a protector for Margaery, Ser Humfrey Hightower and Ser Hobber Redwyne were the chosen two for this charge, despite their making the vows to King Tommen.

"You beat him easily, barely working up a sweat as you defeated him and won the match," Sansa smirked as she spoke, knowing that Ser Hobber was the only man Meryn Trant had defeated that day. Better yet, Meryn had been defeated by Brienne, one of the two newest sworn members of the order at the time, but he had likely painted over such memories with his victory over the Redwyne knight.

"It was when you looked up from him that I saw that animalistic look in your eyes, and I recalled something from when I was younger."

Sansa paused, knowing she had given him enough to assess if he wanted more.

"And?" he pressed taking a step towards her and Sansa had noticed the bulge in his breeches. For some men, all it takes is words.

Sansa smiled. "And...the memory made me feel something, low in my stomach before it traveled to my woman's place." These were words that would have once made her blush, but she had lost that long ago.

"What was the memory?" He palmed his groin, not even bothering to hide the gesture. He viewed Sansa as a whore, and he would not feign to treat her as a lady. He never had before.

"That day at court, all those years ago. When Joffrey had me stripped in front of the court...I felt your hand down my dress and I had that same feeling in my belly and cunt as I did the day of the presentation."

Sansa knew the word were lies. She could taste the falseness of it. Yet Meryn's face soaked in the information and did not understand what she was doing.

"That day at court, I wondered for the first time what it would be like to disrobe in front of a...a knight...in front of  _you_." In truth, Sansa had only been able to think of how to cover herself before the eyes of the court, but Meryn would never understand the thoughts of a thirteen-year-old girl, not that day nor this day.

"At the melee, the thought returned and I wondered further what you would feel like in between my legs. What you would look like when you spilled your seed. Curiosity came over me in the wake of your victory."

Meryn's mouth had opened and he looked unsteady on his feet. Sansa stepped towards him, and his look shifted.

"You've seen me spill my seed," he remarked distantly. His probing puzzled Sansa, though she took it in stride.

She giggled and faked a blush, having mastered the skill during her time in the Vale. "I remember, Ser Meryn, but I still have not had you between my legs."

She looked down again, feigning the embarrassment that he observed. Despite his questioning, he was not so self-aware nor understanding of Sansa to know the truth: this was the next step in this stage of her plan. She could see a stain in the front of his pants, and she knew he was only thinking with his cock at the moment.

She brought her eyes to his again, making this the moment she would do as she needed. She took a step towards the knight, and bowed her head again. He liked subservience. He did not like the wolf.

"That is, if you want a woman with a reputation such as mine." He liked it when she reminded him of her status as an almost fallen woman. His self-importance was his greatest weakness.

"Take off your clothes." His voice was even, but his visible eye was full of lust.

She reached for the tie on the side of her gown, slowly loosening her own laces. She looked away from him, and made herself blush again as she removed the frock from her body. She had not worn any small clothes that night, and the Highgarden styles did not allow for shifts. The dress fell to the floor and she stood bare in front of him. He wanted the coquette and the whore, and Sansa has watched Margaery play that role for Joffrey many times.

Yet she noticed that the heat she felt with Sandor was absent as she shared the view of her body with Meryn Trant. She felt no wetness between her legs. Her nipples were not even hard, though she could tell Ser Meryn did not notice.

"Go to the bed and get on your knees," Meryn ordered. Sansa cocked her head at him and lifted the corners of her mouth ever so slightly.

"No, Ser Meryn." Sansa could hear the joke in her voice, but felt no such joy inside. "That is not how we play this game."

She walked over to him, not bothering to sway her hips when she was already nude.

"I said I wanted you in between my legs," she affirmed her intentions as she unlaced him and took him in her hand, gripping him with the tightness he had seemed to like the last time she came to his rooms, when she brought him to release with her ministrations. "I shall have it no other way."

She pulled him by his manhood and walked backwards to the bed. She rubbed herself as she moved, hoping to give herself some wetness to make this easier for herself. _At least physically_.

She felt the end of the bed lightly against her thighs and she leaned back onto the mattress as she continued moving her hand against Ser Meryn. He was smaller than Sandor. In fact, he had the smallest cock she had ever seen, though her experience was limited. He did not last long either, and seemed angry rather than embarrassed when this occurred, but she showed to him her amazement at his seed to calm his anger. He was a worm. A rat, even. She felt nothing for him, not even hatred anymore, but she knew she needed to enact this step to make her endgame.

Leaning backwards but not resting her back against the bed, she slowly spread her legs for the knight, suspecting how much he wanted to see the pink of her woman's place. She should feel guilt, she should feel embarrassed about letting another man see this part of her, but she could not feel anything anymore.

He entered her with one rough thrust, but not with the roughness that Sandor used, and she felt empty as he started moving inside of her. She could feel him moving inside of her, and though it did not hurt her or even bring her displeasure. In fact, she felt nothing.

"Ahh," she sighed in mock satisfaction.

"Seven hells, your cunt is tight," Meryn pounded away, and Sansa was once again struck by his arrogance that he though _this_ was pleasing, though her moans gave him no reason to think otherwise. Even when he spoke about her woman's place, his words were not able to light a fire her in the same way when Sandor spoke to her in the same manner. She suspected the reason why, though she did not dare to understand it.

She moaned when necessary, but they too were empty promises, not that she cared when her bedmate was Meryn Trant, one of the men who destroyed her father's guard, one of the men who stood by as she was a defenseless girl at the mercy of the vicious world, one of the men who beat her, the man who stripped her naked in front of apathetic spectators, the man who stood between her legs and thrusted too fast and too vigorously to create any sort of pleasure for his partner.

He was arrogant, and not in the same manner as other men she had come across in her life. Harry had been arrogant, but he possessed redeeming qualities as well. Petyr had some arrogance to his character, though Sansa could acknowledge that he was the most brilliant man she had likely ever met. Sandor could even be arrogant about his skills with a sword, but Sansa firmly believed that he had earned such confidence having won not only the Tourney of the Hand and the Tourney for King Jon I and Queen Daenerys I's accession. No, Ser Meryn was a different breed entirely; his was an arrogance that blinded him to the fact that Sansa only allowed him to enter her body in order to achieve a goal, not for any purpose related to lust or admiration.

Though they had only just begun, Sansa prayed that he would finish soon, if only to leave his chambers and return to her own.

"Remember, my lord," Sansa said in between sighs and moans, "you cannot finish inside of me...we would not want any evidence of this, would we?"

Meryn nodded as he was transfixed by the rapid movements of her breasts in response to his thrusts. Internally, Sansa rolled her eyes at his predictability. There was hardly any passion in his movements, only blind need for his own release, and not hers, though she knew well enough how to appear pleased.

She never had to feign her pleasure with Sandor. Even in the beginning of their coupling, when he was still learning her body and what she liked, Sansa never faked her release with the man. She never felt like she need to do so with him. She did not come every time they coupled, but she still enjoyed it. Even since she first showed him how to touch her and what speed and angles she liked, and he was eager to learn, almost desperate, she did not peak every time. There was more to it than either of their releases, though they both certainly enjoyed that part of it.

Looking up at Ser Meryn, she realized that she really wanted to walk away. _No_ , she reminded herself.  _I have to. I must do this._ But it was hard to remember why at the moment when she only wanted Sandor.

Not five minutes after he first entered her, Meryn took his cock out and rubbed himself fiercely to secure his release. Sansa maintained a look of lust on her face as she slowly pushed Meryn further from the bed and she slide to the side, preparing to avoid his seed ever touching her body. When he found his release, a combination of a grunt and a cry escaped his mouth, and Sansa did not know if anyone could find such a noise from his lips attractive. She loved the sound of Sandor coming, his grunts and the sounds of his skin rubbing against or hitting hers, and she always let him finish inside of her, though she did not know if  _he_ knew either fact.

When Sansa left Ser Meryn's chambers a short time later, she tried to smooth the wrinkles in the pink silk of the dress, no longer finding the fabric's connection to her past to matter now that she had fucked Meryn Trant. Walking back to her own chambers, hoping to find some peace from the despair she felt now that she had added another notch to her bedpost, she clutched her stomach and felt something she did not realize she had never felt before: an emptiness, so profound that she felt truly alone in the world.  _What am I doing? Where am I going to?_ The questions had crossed her mind before, but had never felt so bleak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm using the metaphor of the onion instead of lemons in my notes because this is not a typical SanSan fic, therefore I wanted to keep lemons in happy Sansa territory.
> 
> Comments of shock, intrigue, and excitement for the next chapter are welcome. Feedback (i.e. constructive criticism) is also welcome. Pure negativity is not.


	9. Sandor V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to let everyone know that this chapter may feel intense, but I want you all to know that there is absolutely no violence in it.
> 
> Also, for this chapter, I have decided to add a bit of a soundtrack to this fic, starting with this scene, as it is one that I had pictured since I conceived of this plot. The song ["No Light, No Light" by Florence + the Machine](https://youtu.be/dUqnaJN5x-A) is one of my all-time favorite songs, and one that pairs perfectly with this scene. When I listened to it as I was writing this, I imagined the song to be paralleling what Sandor and Sansa say to each other, as though the lyrics were a back-and-forth between them.

_What is she doing right now?_  he wondered, not for the first time.  _Is she sucking his cock? Or is she riding him as she rode me earlier?_ He fought the urge to vomit as the flashes of such activities infected his mind. He wasn’t sure which one he hated more, which one he would prefer he to do.

She had warned him about this when she first explained everything to him. She had been honest, and that was all he thought he ever wanted. But back then, he had no idea what he was getting into with her, had no idea what she would be willing to do. He had been too overwhelmed by everything that night, by her lips, by her hair in his hands and fingers, by her scent, by the sight of her naked in front him.

She had touched him, she had kissed him, she had undressed herself, she had undressed him, she had fucked him. It was all her. _Her, her, her_.

He leaned into the pillow on the bed and breathed in the scent from the last time she had lain there. It smelled of lavender and lemon, two scents he could have never predicted he would find so comforting. Yet there was an emptiness in it. He could smell as much lavender and lemon as possible, but it would not be the same as when he held her and smelled the top of her head, as when he breathed in when he put his mouth in between her legs. _That_ … _those_ memories… _those_ memories were her. Not odors on a pillow or in sheets.

But then again, this was her too. This waiting. This anger. This knowing where she was and what she was doing at her appointments. Or not knowing perhaps. He had an idea, though the details were unknown to him. He was not sure if he wanted to keep it that way or know every moment that passed when she went to Meryn Trant’s chambers.

 _He doesn’t deserve her_ , he thought bitterly, the familiar taste of resentment and jealousy in his mouth. _He beat her, he stripped her, he leered at her when she was just a child._

Sandor laughed angrily at the thought. _Was I any better? I just stood there when I wasn’t drunkenly terrifying the girl_. Some things had not changed.

He heard the door creak open, and he turned his head from the bed. _It’s only her_.

Even in his drunken state, he still thought to look at what she was wearing, if only to add a detail to the lurid scenes in his head. It was pink silk, something he had not seen her wear since she was a terrified girl in King’s Landing. He hated it.

She shut the door behind her, and trudged—the graceful Sansa Stark trudged!—to the table near the fireplace. She did reaches for the sash that tied her gown to her body when Sandor decided to move, not wanting her to undress unless she knew he was there.

She jumped and her hip hit the table.

“Sorry, little bird,” he rasped. He could smell the wine on his breath, and wondered if she would be able to smell it too.

Her palm covered her chest, where her heart would be, and her shoulders lowered once she recognized his voice.

“Sandor…”

“I know,” he spat. “I have a habit of scaring you in your bedchambers. Might be you should.”

His threat was empty, which they both knew.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice was shaky, though her body was steady.

He looked down at his hands, which played uselessly with his gray cloak. “I went to Chataya’s.”

He looked back to her and saw her head nod in response, although her eyes were elsewhere. “And?”

“Some pretty lords saw me there. I did as you asked.”

She nodded again, her eyes still vacant. “Good.”

She moved, turning her body back to the table and she poured the pitcher that sat there into the basin. Her hand moved back to the sash and she continued to loosen the gown before sliding the fabric off her body. He immediately registered that she was not wearing smallclothes. He felt his cock harden and his rage rise as well. _She did not have any small clothes for this “appointment.”_ He wanted to hit something. He wanted to kill someone. He wanted it to be Meryn Trant, but he knew that he could not do that to her, after her careful planning. _Plotting, more like_.

He watched her stand there naked and grab a rag before she dipped into the basin. She reached between her legs and brought the rag there to clean herself.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” she looked at him. He nodded at her hand. “Ladies need to clean after…after.”

“After?”

“Sandor, don’t.”

“No, I bloody well will,” he shouted at her, taking another gulp from the wineskin.

“I clean myself after I lay with you too,” she spat back at him. “Why do you need ask why I do this?”

“So you fucked him this time?”

“Sandor, stop,” she turned away from him. He grabbed her arm, another thing he had not done since the last time they were in King’s Landing.

“Let go of me,” she enunciated, the threat clear. He let go and saw red marks on her arm. There would be a bruise there tomorrow. She looked down and examined her arm. Her eyes shot back up at him, blue eyes, normally so calm or completely vacant, that were now fully of rage.

_The She-Wolf, the Hound, and the battle for her cunt. Could be a song._

“Get out.” Her voice was a whisper, yet he felt like she had shouted at him.

“No.”

Her features could not hide her shock.

“How dare you?” Her beautiful features have contorted in anger, though the emotion only revealed more of the wolf beneath. She still looked stunning, naked and full of rage. “You come into _my_ chambers, you ask me insulting questions, and you hurt me! Who do you think you are?”

“I am the only one in this entire city who knows who and what you are.” He swayed, the last wineskin washing over him finally. He knew he did not want to be sober until the light of day. “Not even your precious King and Queen know you.”

She stumbled backward as though she had been struck. She looked as though she was reeling when she turned from him.

“Why are you like this?” she whispered. He saw her cover her face with her hands. **“Why are you so _hate_ ful?”***

He let out a shaky breath. “You think I hate you?”

She turned to face him once more. She shook her head in response, though she did not speak. He doubted she could bring herself to speak at this moment.

She looked down at her hands, which she had intertwined in front of her stomach, her thumbs twiddling absentmindedly.

“Do you remember what you said to me?” She looked to him, her blue eyes wide although still angry, but there something new in them. Pleading? Desperation? _Might be both_. “That night? Do you remember?”

He remained silent but nodded his understanding as the memories from that night managed push everything he imagined her doing with Meryn Trant out of his mind. It had been the best night of his life.

“Yes,” he rasped, “I remember.”

“Tell me what you said,” she pushed, clearly frustrated. He saw her eyes glaze over with wetness.

“I said,” he sighed, “that I would I follow you to whatever end.”

She nodded, though the pain in her eyes did not fade.

“‘Whatever end,’” she quoted. “ _This_ is the beginning of the end. _This_ is what you agreed to that night. If you have changed your mind, or if you want to leave—”

“No.” He did not want to hear the rest of what she had to say. As much as he hated this, he could not bear to be without her. “I made a vow. The only vow I will ever make. I am bound to you.”

She was breathing heavily, her chest rapidly rising and falling.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he added. Her face fell at his words and she closed her eyes. Despite the vow, despite thinking of it as the most important moment of his life, he still wanted to wound her. He wanted to make her feel the pain that he felt, had felt all day.

“And there it is,” she stated, sounding more defeated than she had in a long time. “You want a resolution right now?”

He looked at her, feeling sheepish as he did.

“That is what I have wanted for over ten years. Ever since I watched my father die.”

He looked away from her, feeling her Tully blue eyes bore into him like icicles. He shivered.

“I don’t know what to do to make you stay,” she confessed. Her voice shook and she sounded broken.

“Stay? Sansa, I already said that I wouldn’t leave you.”

He swallowed, feeling like he was exchanging one weight on his shoulders for another.

“I meant what I said that night. I will follow you to all seven hells. But I hate what you do. I hate what it will do to you.”

“You have no idea what it will do to me,” Sansa pushed back and her gaze returned to the vacant stare that she wore at court.

“Sansa, you haven’t visited Cersei Lannister in the Black Cells. You are walking a dangerous path, one that she tread as well. Go see her. Look where she is.”

“Is that a threat?” she looked angry once again.

He wanted to roll his eyes at the question, furious that she would ask such a stupid thing.

“You know me better than that,” was all he could choke out.

Sansa shook her head. He felt self-conscious suddenly. She stood naked in front him, and he was neither aroused nor drunk enough to stay. He needed to return to his rooms and finish off what remained to his pile of wineskins. He wanted to obliterate the memory of this. He wanted to burn the thoughts of Meryn Trant from his head. He wanted to be alone while she washed herself clean of this night.

He turned away without another word and walked to the door. He did not look back. He did not want that image of her standing there, naked and alone, as he left her. He wanted to remember her better than that.

He opened the door, clinging to his wineskin in one hand and shut the door behind him. As he walked further down the hall to his own chambers, he heard the lock turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something about this chapter feels off, and I feel like I'm missing something, but I have read this chapter so many times that I just can't seem to figure it out. Sorry. I feel like I failed you.


	10. Sansa V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long, everyone! This chapter proved to be incredibly challenging for me since I planned on having a small council meeting in it, but eventually that scene grew so long that I decided to make it a different chapter, which will be posted soon.

Sansa had slept on her chair last night. She could not bring herself to sleep in her bed with remnants of her time with Meryn Trant on her body. She always tried to wash herself clean with her basin as best she could, but she found that it was never enough. She would need a bath before she would want to sleep in her own sheets.

Her handmaidens delivered her tub and filled it with steaming water before leaving her to her daily ritual. She had been a woman of importance in the Red Keep for long enough that she did not need to tell them what to do anymore. She had a strict morning routine, one from which she rarely strayed. It was only at night when she varied, which is what prompted rumors at court.

Sitting in the tub, soaking in the water, Sansa exhaled as she felt the remains of the previous night wash away, and began scrubbing her skin pink in order to be truly cleansed from her actions. All that was left were the memories. She could still hear the rhythmic slapping of skin on skin, a sound she did not particularly like; coupling was never as satisfying when it was that fast, though she did enjoy her more frantic couplings with Sandor. He was always so thoughtful in bed, even when they were a bit rough with one another. There was always pleasure, even when she was dragging her nails down his back or he was nipping at her breasts. Even when the thrusting on both their parts bordered on erratically painful, they both found their releases and knew the other one wanted it as much.

There was no such assurance with Meryn. He was vile, she had thought ever since she found it in herself to think bad thoughts of people. He had no idea how to please a woman, not that she really wanted him to please her. Few men knew how to actually bring her to release, and she preferred to keep it that way. Sandor knew how she liked to be teased and he knew how to get her wet enough before entering, and they knew after their first night together that she needed a great deal of foreplay before she could take him inside of her. She knew she would need to plan ahead and applied a special oil to her woman's place that one of the queen's handmaidens—Missandei, her name was—had procured for her.

Although the handmaiden had looked a bit shocked at Sansa's request, a knowing smile came to the young woman's mouth, though she had tried to hide it. Sansa had deduced that Missandei had assumed its purpose, although Sansa knew the young woman could only put together half of the story. She did not dare to correct her, especially since it was difficult to find trustworthy handmaidens, even under a new reign. Of course, Sansa knew she could trust Missandei. As a handmaiden to the Queen, one whom had followed the woman loyally since Daenerys' time in Essos, and since Sansa was the beloved cousin and adopted sister of the King, she knew it was safe to trust her.

Which is why she had long ago asked Missandei to begin procuring moon tea for her.

A woman of Sansa's position could not simply ask any handmaiden or spy to do it. Her own arrangement required discretion in order for her to maintain her freedom. That meant that she needed moon tea, and she needed someone who could not be traced to her to obtain it.

Sansa glanced over to her table and saw the steaming cup. Missandei had given Sansa the herbs and explained how to brew the concoction, which she did every morning after the tub had been filled and her handmaids left her. She would drink once she was clean.

Once she finished washing her body, she grabbed the special mixture that she used to wash her hair. It smelled of lavender oil and lemon—her two favorite scents. She poured some of the liquid into her hand before kneading it into her scalp and along the length of her tresses. She loved washing her hair. She used to love when her mother would wash it for her and then brush it dry. She felt so loved, so cared for when her hair was tended to. She had not let anyone assist her during her bath since the Vale. It had become her sanctuary, the place where she could think and not be bothered. She had been bathing when she first thought up her plan.

Ducking under the water to wash the soap out of her hair, she grabbed the jug of clean water always left by the tub and poured it over her head little-by-little. She loved this part of her ritual. She felt refreshed whenever she felt the clean water pour over her. She was ready.

Rising from the tub, she reached for the robe resting on the chair by the table. Once the thick, fur-lined fabric covered her, she reached for the mug of moon tea. The putrid drink reached her nostrils before her lips, and she had to fight off the familiar urge to drop the cup and let it shatter on the stone floor. It was a disgusting beverage, but Sansa knew the importance of it. She could not afford to get pregnant, not with a situation like hers, and especially when she could not technically be sure who the father was. Of course, the likelihood that is was Sandor was high, as she only let him spill inside of her, but she was not fool enough to believe that it was impossible for Meryn Trant impregnate her.

She often wondered if she would ever have children some day. She knew that she could not be a mother yet, not when she had so much left to do. Perhaps more, she knew that she was unlikely to ever have children in the manner that she wished. She doubted she would ever be able to marry anyone else, which meant that the only children that she could have were bastards. As the King's cousin and an advisor to the regents, she knew that she could not do that either. It felt unfair that something so treasured and so easy to achieve was just out of her reach.

After the first sip of the substance, Sansa swallowed the tea quickly, trying to limit the amount of time she had to suffer the smell. Using a towel to dry her hair, she brushed it quickly before tying it into a simple northern hairstyle. Dressing herself in a simple blue and white silk gown, she glanced in the mirror to make sure not a hair was out of place. She did not want any imperfection for her walk to the great hall.

Opening the door to the bedchamber, she found Sandor already waiting for her, though he did not bring himself to look her in the eye. She was not sure if she wanted him to, but she also did not know if she wanted him not to.

"Good morning," she greeted, although she did not smile, not that he was looking at her, and there was no levity in her voice. She had merely wanted to show him that she still wanted to talk to him, that he still mattered to her, although she was unsure how to show it.

He grunted at her, which she supposed he meant as a greeting. She could still smell the wine on his breath, even from a distance.

She began walking, and she noticed that he was walking behind her, rather than next to her, and she felt even more alone than she had been in her bedroom.

Silence pushed them further as they continued on their way. Sansa felt like she was suffocating from his presence, and she was sure that he must feel the same. She did not dare speak again, not when she felt the oppressive quiet surround her.

They marched on, but the uneasiness remained. Sansa felt her stomach do flip flops in way she had not felt since she was just a stupid girl infatuated with Joffrey. Back then, she prayed to the gods that he would spend time with her and think of her. Her stomach always felt as though it were in knots when he was around. She found that she felt strangely the same with Sandor, but she knew this was not infatuation.

 _Say something_ , she heard something in her mind whisper.  _Say something, you daft little bird_. She felt like a fool. She needed to do something. This man, her sworn shield, this person who knows her better than anyone else...she could not just become the silent statue she was when she was a girl. She refused to revert back to the mask she wore in the Lannister court.  _Say something, you fool_.

She fought against her initial instinct to be silent.  _Say something_.

"I hope you will see me before you take your leave tonight," she said delicately, although she was unsure where the words came from.  _Will he even want to come to my bed?_ She was unsure what he wanted after last night. He would stand by her, he said as much, but would he still want to hold her? To kiss her? To look her in the eye as they came together? Of that she more unsure of anything else in her entire life.

Standing on the edge of knife, his silence stopped just short of destroying her. Knots turned into stones, and she felt more weighed down than ever before.  _You should not have said anything. Words are wind._

Despite her better judgment, despite her years of training under Cersei, Margaery, and Petyr, she stopped walking and turned around to look at him, hoping that the sight of him would bring her more comfort than his silence. Reading his expression, she could tell that he was stewing over her question, unsure of what to say. She suspected he was suffering from the remnants of his drunken stupor as well.

Not wanting to look upon him any longer, not wanting him to see her weakness, she returned her gaze to the hallway before her and continued walking.

"I could come to you tonight," he rasped quietly, stopping her in her tracks, "while you dine, we can talk."

She felt the weight fall from her shoulders as she processed his response. It warmed her heart that he wanted to dine with her, and she knew that they would be able to discuss things soberly over food before making love and falling asleep in each other's arms. The story wrote itself in her mind as she imagined their union, and that was the moment she knew, in her heart of hearts, just how much she needed him. She needed his sword, true enough, but she needed his arms, and his counsel, and his warmth, and his gruffness. Most of all, she needed his heart. She kept her own far away enough for the both of them.

They continued on their journey to the great hall when she could see him start to catch up with her in her peripheral vision. He was next to her, suddenly, and she felt a new sense of comfort as he started their practice anew. They were side by side,  _as we should be_.

Turning the corner, Sansa heard a shuffle of feet and sensed Sandor tense. "My lady!"

Bringing her gaze to messenger before she, she racked her brain to remember the young man's name. "Good morning, Erryl."

He skidded to halt in front of her, bowing awkwardly. "My la-ady...La—" he repeated.

Sansa heard Sandor growl at the young man, whose face soon turned beet-red over the fumbled address. Sandor often reacted this way when she was greeted formally.

"A small council meeting has been called this morning," he said clearly, the formality of addressing a high-born woman seeming to be the biggest struggle for the boy.

Sansa felt the joy that filled her in the final moments of her walk with Sandor leave her.

"Of course, thank you," she heard the coldness in her voice and knew she should feel worse about being so rude to the young man, but she did not want to waste any more time on pleasantries. She had politics to which she needed to attend.

As the messenger walked away from her, sensing the command in her distant reaction, she turned to Sandor.

"I—"

"I understand," he answered her before she could even explain. "I will go to the training yard."

She nodded, hoping the meeting would end sooner rather than later so she could watch him practice. "Dinner?"

"Aye," he nodded at her, and she felted a renewed sense of hope.

"You can take your leave," she smiled at him, a thin-lipped smile, but no less warm than a wide grin.

Sandor moved past her, keeping his eyes on hers until it was no longer comfortable to gawk at her. She watched him walk away, waiting until he turned a corner before she started to make her way to the small council chambers.

Sansa knew this walk well, and she preferred to make it alone. Sandor had always respected her need to be clear-minded when she focused on politics, leaving her to her thoughts rather than distracting her. She supposed it was rather odd that a high-born woman so readily dismissed her sworn shield, but Sansa's situation was replicated nowhere in the realm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick comment about how imagine moon tea working: I kind of think of like a birth control pill in which a sexually active woman would drink it every day in order to prevent herself from getting pregnant. That is probably way too modern of me, but that is how I imagine it working in this fic. I guess the other way to portray it would be as a medieval morning after pill, but either way, Sansa drinks it every morning as a part of her morning routine.
> 
> As for the story, what are you thinking so far? I love to get an idea of what my readers are feeling or how they are reacting. This is not typical fluffy SanSan...and I panic that people are really turned off by the premise.


	11. Sansa VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter was very experimental for me because I have never had so many characters in the same scene before. I enjoyed writing it, but I know there are still a lot of flaws in here. Constructive feedback would be very helpful for me.

As she approached the doors to the small council chamber, she heard the familiar hum of friendly smalltalk among a small council during peacetime, as the realm had enjoyed a lengthy King and Queen's peace since the Targaryen Reclamation. She paused in front of the doors, taking one last deep breath before she surrounded herself with her peers.

"What have we here?" she heard the familiar teasing tone of the Lord Commander of the City Watch behind her.

"My lord?" she questioned, raising an eyebrow as she turned around to meet his eyes. She never backed down from banter with this man, though it was a far cry from the frightened girl she once was who did not realize her power of men. She was well aware now, and she knew how much the Lord Commander appreciated her beauty and her wit, however unseemly it might be for him to comment on it and her to acknowledge his thoughts.

"Master of Whispers eavesdropping on a small council meeting," he smirked at her, though the smile was much more visible in his eyes than in his mouth. "A bit ironic, isn't it? You have every right to walk right in there and listen openly, and here you are."

"Spymasters and enforcers have a different set of rules, do you not agree, Ser Bronn?"

"Oh, aye, but spymasters and enforcers are not sneaks, though we may live in the shadows more than the others. Besides, neither you nor I are spymasters, not really." The grin found his mouth this time, and Sansa once more felt an appreciation for the Lord Commander.

"Shall we?" she asked, though his hand was already on the door.

"We shall." Opening the door and grandly indicating that she should enter first, Sansa entered the chambers of the small council.

Looking around the room, most of the councilmembers were standing and conversing, trying to get a lay of the land before the meeting actually began. Sansa learned early in her education that it was savviest to be early to a council-meeting, one of Petyr's lessons, of course. While most of the councilmembers were socializing, Sansa was vaguely amused that Grandmaester Marwyn was seated at the table, reading, while Grey Worm, the General of the King's and Queen's armies, was standing by the archway from which the King and Queen would enter to begin the meeting. Despite their oddness, Sansa appreciated their seriousness when it came to their duties. Without Grey Worm to lead armies in the Targaryen Reclamation and the War for the Dawn, Sansa suspected that the wars would have lasted far longer, and without Grandmaester Marwyn, there might not be an heir in Daenerys' womb. Taking her eyes off of the strangest councilmembers, Sansa turned to the rest of the high lords and councilors.

"Ah, greetings, my lady," the warm voice of Ser Davos Seaworth greeted her first. She could see the council was fully assembled now that she and Bronn had entered the chambers—save for one.

"Grand Admiral," Sansa bowed her head as Davos did the same. She preferred Ser Davos above all of the other members of the small council, viewing his demeanor to be far more honest than anyone else's. Although it was peacetime and many of the former conspirators were no longer players, dishonesty and secrets still reigned at court, as it always would. Though Sansa knew she was one of them, knew she was no better than any of them, she still found herself detesting the falsehoods of being a player. She supposed it was one of the many influences Sandor had on her.

"It is wonderful to see you, my lady," greeted Nymeria Sand, Princess Arianne's chosen representative for Dorne, who meandered over to Sansa. The woman always treated Sansa kindly, and never seemed to look down on her others did. Perhaps it was that Sansa knew what it was like to be a bastard, perhaps it was that Nymeria understood what it was like to be condemned for immoral behavior by the Andal-descended courtiers. Regardless of a possible understanding between the two women, Sansa was too careful to let herself get too close to the woman the other courtiers and small council members referred to as a snake.

"And you, my lady," Sansa replied with her usual pleasantries.

"'Lady'? I'm no lady," Nymeria raised an eyebrow and smirked at Sansa, as though she were alluding to a deep secret between the two. There were times Nymeria Sand made Sansa think that the supposed sand snake knew more than Sansa was comfortable with. _'I'm no lady'..._

"Nonsense, you are a member of the small council, a representative from Dorne, and the beloved cousin of its current liege lord: you deserve the title of lady as much as I do." More than anything, Sansa knew she needed to legitimize the only other female member of the small council. Despite having a King  _and_ a Queen, both equal in rank, as the heads of the realm, only two women made up the nine-seat small council. Even with a lack of trust, Sansa knew it was better to have Nymeria on the small council than be the only woman left; she suspected that Nymeria knew the same thing.

"You are always so gracious with your titles," Nymeria teased, though Sansa was also never sure if Nymeria was taunting her or flirting with her. The Dornish woman did not seem to follow the same social mores as the descendants of the First Men and the Andals.

"I only mean to give the respect befit of your position, my lady. Please take no offense to—"

"I assure you, I take none,  _my lady_ ," Nymeria spoke, once again raising her eyebrow and smirking at Sansa.

Feeling the need to move on to a new conversation—a new council member altogether, really—Sansa gravitated towards Ser Barristan and Ser Davos, two men whom she could feel comfortable would never have to fear being made uncomfortable or rejected. She knew Ser Barristan held great respect for her father, while Ser Davos seemed to like most people, being a most genial of the council members and much more humble than any, even Nym.

"My lady," Ser Barristan bowed his head in respect.

Sansa smiled at him and returned the gesture. "Lord Commander."

"Have you any idea what we should expect for today's agenda, my lady?" Ser Davos inquired of her, assuming as most did that she knew more than any of the small council members.

"I have a suspicion, but nothing I am willing to reveal just yet," Sansa smirked at the men, planning to charm them with same wit that she had seen Margaery Tyrell employ countless times.

"So secretive,  _my lady_ ," Nymeria Sand appeared beside her, a dangerous grin on her face, "what secrets must be in your skull as we speak, ready to burn or build a kingdom."

"Only secrets too dangerous for the rest to know," Sansa gave a tight smile in response, "I promise."

Despite the tension, Sansa did not feel endangered in the slightest. The banter between the council members was typical—friendly, even.

"Secrets that she doesn't even share with the King and Queen," Jon's voice interrupted their small congregation, breaking them from their discussion, "but we still cherish her all the same."

"Your grace," Sansa was the first to speak and bow her head, followed by Ser Jorah, the Master of Laws in the far corner of the chambers, and the rest soon followed suit. As her head lifted, she saw Jon and Daenerys enter the room separately, not the united front that they usually presented. Sansa immediately noted the difference, and from her glance around the room, Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan made similar observations based on their reserved expressions.

"Be seated," the Queen commanded in her most stately tone, a far cry from the woman who broke her fast with Sansa not a day past. She looked humorless, though the glow from her pregnancy was still present.

"How do you feel today, your grace?" inquired Ser Barristan. Sansa wondered if he assumed her lack of humor was a result of pregnancy mood swings. She was vaguely offended at the idea that the Queen, four moons into her pregnancy now, had yet to show any signs of incompetence. Pregnant was a far cry from mad.

"I feel fine, Ser Barristan, I thank you for your concern." Though the Queen's tone was calm and kind, the bite in her words was not missed by Sansa.

"We have much to discuss, today," the King interjected. Each council member took their assigned place at the table, the same seats as always since this new small council under the reign of both King Jon I and Queen Daenerys I Targaryen first assembled. The King and Queen sat next to each other, showing a united front despite the tension at present. Sansa always sat to the right of the King, signifying their blood relation and her importance, despite the fact that Sansa could not be acknowledged as the master of whispers. Ser Jorah sat to the left Queen, signifying their close relationship and his history as her first advisor. Ser Barristan sat next to Ser Jorah, while Ser Bronn sat next to him. Ser Davos next to them while Grey Worm, the Master of War and General of the King and Queen's Army of Unsullied, was next to Ser Davos; the King and Queen had wanted the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the Lord Commander of the City Watch, the Master of Ships, and the Master of War to be seated next to one another so the military leaders of the council could confer with one another when the need arose. After the militant faction, Nymeria Sand lounged in her seat and Grandmaester Marwyn was next. All that was left was the Hand.

"Hopefully not without me, Your Grace," a familiar voice interrupted the opening proceedings from directly behind Sansa, and she turned around to be greeted with the sight of Lord Tyrion.

"Of course not, Lord Tyrion," Dany answered, and it minorly aggravated Sansa that the Queen was always so ready to appease Lord Tyrion. "But we need to begin sooner rather than later."

Following his wife's command, Jon continued, “First, we need to better strategize how to deal with the religious differences between the followers of R’hllor and the followers of the Faith. There are numerous reports of skirmishes in the Riverlands and the Westerlands, and the crown needs to act. Lady Sansa has suggested that we sanction the building of red temples in major cities in order to show that we support all faiths, but there is still uncertainty about how the Faith will react.”

“Lady Sansa could not recall if there was a temple in Dorne or not,” the Queen began. "Could you clarify, Lady Nymeria?”

Sansa felt a mixed reaction to Daenerys’ question: while she did not want to the other councilmembers to fully understand just how much cause they had to fear her, that she was often underestimated at others’ peril, she also desperately wanted recognition for her intelligence, her cunning. So few seemed to understand what she had to offer, and she did not need the Queen to reinforce this. Or perhaps she just did not want her to reinforce it.

“There _is_ a temple in the shadow city outside of Sunspear,” Nymeria confirmed. “There is a priest and priestess there, but aside from sailors and travelers, there are not any Dornish faithful.”

“And there is one in Oldtown, as well,” added the Grandmaester.

“According to my scouts, a sizeable population of the Riverlands has converted to the red god,” Tyrion offered. “So it would make the most sense to build a red temple in the Riverlands, which has no major cities.”

“Maidenpool would be the best location,” Jorah entered the fray. “If the Faith contested anything, we could always say that we plan to make it a city and having a temple is meant to stimulate trade. Sailors would feel more welcome to make port there knowing that their faith was accepted.”

“But not all of the converts are located in Maidenpool.” Sansa felt as though she were pointing out the obvious, yet all of the eyes at the small council table turned to her. “Maidenpool could be the start, but a true demonstration of tolerance means that Maidenpool is not enough.”

“Then what do you suggest, my lady?” Tyrion inquired.

“Lannisport, Golden Tooth, Fairmarket, and the Twins.”

“The people starting the skirmishes, according to _my_ scouts, are the Sparrows, a zealous group born of the War of the Five Kings,” Sansa began to explain her reasoning, knowing she would need to defend her rationale. “Since the Sparrows are under the protection of the High Septon, we have not been able to fully touch them due to the powers that Cersei gave the Faith.”

“Something we will need to rectify soon, rest assured,” Dany interjected, and Sansa found it remarkable that a woman with life growing inside of her was capable of such political ruthlessness and militant strength. She admired the Queen for defying expectations in ways that Sansa could only dream.

“Nonetheless, the Sparrows have gone unchecked and unchallenged for at least a decade now, and though their actions are nothing as extreme as what they did to Cersei Lannister, they do need to be reined in,” Sansa continued. “I agree with the Queen that it must be rectified, but I believe that sending the message of religious acceptance is the first step in accomplishing such a thing.”

“And the next step?” Tyrion pushed. He was restrained, in tone and posture, and Sansa did not like that one bit.

“Dismantling the Faith Militant,” Sansa said, as she reached for the goblet in front of her to sip on the Arbor gold inside. There were always goblets in front of her and Tyrion’s seats. He promised her as much when she took on the position of the mistress of whispers.

“You wish to dismantle the Faith Militant?” Jorah spoke slowly, a mix disbelief and shock in his eyes.

“I do not wish it, but rather see it as the best option for the future of the realm,” Sansa argued. “I keep the old gods and the new, so I am not an enemy of the Faith or the High Septon. I only wish to see the people of Westeros free to choose their own faith, without the threat of being attacked by zealots.”

“The Faith Militant aside, the Queen and I agree that the smallfolk and the nobles have every right to choose their own faith,” Jon spoke then. “As it was recently pointed out to us, the followers of the Lord of Light see the dragons and House Targaryen as symbols of their faith, and are extremely loyal to the crown. Let us be sure such loyalty is rewarded with protection.”

“Ser Jorah?” Dany asked sternly, though her face looked almost serene.

“Yes, Your Grace?” the older knight responded.

“Please send an order bearing your seal to all of the major noble houses that all attacks on worshippers, be they followers of the Seven or the red god, must be severely punished. Religious disputes will not be tolerated by the crown.”

“Yes, my queen.”

“Your Graces, what is your final say on the construction of Red Temples in Maidenpool, Lannisport, Golden Tooth, Fairmarket, and the Twins?” Tyrion asked.

“We have not come to decision yet, as we need more council,” Daenerys said, and Sansa noted that Jon had opened his mouth when she spoke. They were normally so coordinated, as though they were performing a dance, whenever they held court or sat with the small council. Something was very wrong between them, and Sansa was curious to know what.

“Considering that countless cities in Essos have multiple religious orders and shrines, I cannot see why Westeros cannot join them in the practice,” Grandmaester Marwyn gave his opinion to the table, and Sansa was grateful that there was one person besides her who seemed to support the approach of tolerance.

“I would have to agree with the Grandmaester, and with the Lady Sansa,” Nymeria added.

Sansa heard Davos exhale, and her eyes quickly fell on him.

“Having spent a great deal of time with a red priestess, I can honestly say that I am not thrilled with the idea of the Lord of Light becoming a respected faith, no different from the old gods and the new,” the old man began, and Sansa tried to hide her deflation that he was not in agreement with her argument. “That being said, the needs of the realm outweigh my own biases, and I hear the Lady’s reasoning for acceptance rather than war.”

“Lord Tyrion?” The bright amethyst eyes of Daenerys Targaryen were on her trusted Hand, and Sansa felt a peculiar injustice that the final say might as well rest on Tyrion Lannister’s shoulders.

“As I have long said, anything that pisses off the gods and the septons is fine by me,” Tyrion said with all seriousness, as he took a sip from his own goblet. Sansa felt relief that her thoughts were being accepted, but again felt irritated that Tyrion could jest all through a small council meeting and still be so respected. She had never been so lucky. _For most of my life, everyone has thought me a boring halfwit. A pretty face and no instinct for intrigue._ Petyr Baelish was the only one who tried to challenge her to be more. Well, perhaps not the only one. Sandor challenged her to be more too, but in a very different way.

Daenerys looked to Jon, and for the first time since they entered the room, Sansa could see some of the tension between them melt away, even though Daenerys’ shoulders were still high and general demeanor still cool. But her face, well, her face and eyes communicated something else entirely.

“Then it is decided,” Jon spoke.

“We will have temples built in Maidenpool, Lannisport, Golden Tooth, Fairmarket, and the Twins,” Daenerys confirmed the decree. “Ser Jorah—”

“If I may, Your Grace,” Tyrion interrupted her, yet every member of the small council knew he would not do so unless it were important. Daenerys too, even though she looked annoyed, knew something was pressing on the Lord Hand’s mind.

“The noble houses will not be please with such a decree, however important it may be to keeping the King’s and Queen’s Peace,” Tyrion continued, “perhaps the crown should fund the construction, since none of the major houses follow the red god, they are unlikely to want to pay for it themselves.”

Sansa stewed over Tyrion’s suggestion, and knew he was right.

“I would have to agree with Lord Tyrion, Your Grace,” Sansa began. “Plus, funding such an endeavor with the crown’s own coin would send the message you are hoping to send about religious tolerance and putting an end to the discord.”

The King and Queen were quiet while they mulled over the suggestions.

“I would have to agree with you,” Jon broke the silence first.

“Ser Jorah,” Daenerys returned her gaze to the man seated to her left, “Send word to the liege lords of Maidenpool, Lannisport, the Golden Tooth, Fairmarket, and the Twins informing them of the pending construction of a red temple in each of the cities and towns. The crown will supply the funds, the lords will need to supply the men to build them, and the lords are responsible for the temples’ protection during and after the construction. It is their vassals who will be using the temples, therefore their swords will protect them.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Jorah answered as he documented what he needed in order to remember the demands.

“Speaking of funds for this project, have you made any progress in choosing a new master of coin, Your Graces?” It was Tyrion this time, and she knew this was the moment for which she had been waiting.

“Yes,” Jon said, and he drummed his fingers deliberately on the table, watching them as he chose his next words carefully. “Since there are so few people left in this kingdom who seem both capable and trustworthy enough to have the position, we have made a decision.”

Daenerys shifted in her seat, as she readied herself to finish for Jon. “The King and I have decided to ask Olenna Tyrell to be the new master of coin.”

Silence again fell across the table, but it was grossly different than before.

“Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns?” Nymeria asked incredulously.

“Awfully old for a master of coin, if I do say so,” was Bronn’s first contribution to the proceedings.

“Eighty-two _is_ quite old, but not as disconcerting a fact as that she framed me not ten years ago,” Tyrion’s voice rose in a crescendo to show first his flippancy and then his outrage. “The woman is a known regicidal schemer.”

“Which we are aware of, and the Lannisters were not,” Daenerys argued. “As for her age, Ser Barristan is in his seventies and is more than capable of being Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, just as Ser Davos runs the King and Queen’s Navy and is in his sixties.”

“I do believe the difference between Ser Barristan and someone who used Sansa, _your_ sister or cousin or however you wish to think of her,” Tyrion pointed at Jon, and Sansa worried that he was walking in dangerous territory, “to murder King Joffrey.”

“A bastard,” Daenerys raised her eyebrow and glared at Tyrion.

“And a mad king,” said Marwyn before eight pairs of wide eyes turned to him, “but crowned no less.”

“I cannot fathom where you got this idea from,” Tyrion said breathlessly and he reached for his cup once more. It was rare for him to lose control like this, and Sansa knew that that period in his life held far more for him than just being framed by Lady Olenna, but she doubted that he would ever share that with her.

“It was your wife’s idea,” Jon added, a smirk plastered on his face at the chance to pull the rug out from underneath the Hand.

“Sansa?” Tyrion gasped, and she knew this would not be an easy situation to take her way out of.

“Lady Olenna has experience running the second wealthiest house in the Seven Kingdoms,” Sansa began, and seeing Tyrion roll his eyes told her she needed to push more. “It is no secret that Lady Olenna governs House Tyrell, and holds significant influence over House Redwyne. In addition to the fact that her good-daughter is a Hightower, you have three of the most powerful and the wealthiest families in the Reach, all of which Olenna controls in some capacity. She knows how to manage wealth, she knows how to negotiate—”

“She knows how to plot,” Tyrion pushed.

“Yes,” Sansa concurred, “but the Lannisters underestimated her and the Tyrells, we will not. We know what they are capable of, and we know their most frequent tricks.”

“They no longer have a daughter to marry to a king,” Nymeria added, a sly grin forming on her beautiful face. It was clear that Nym had inherited her father’s dislike for the Tyrells.

“No, no, now she is just birthing heirs to Casterly Rock,” Tyrion spat, and again silence fell across the table.

Sansa felt as though she had been slapped, though she had long known that Tyrion felt bitter about the fact that she had not given him heirs.

“If the appointment does not work out, then we will simply dismiss, Lady Olenna,” Jon said, though the restraint in his voice communicated a great deal to the councilmembers. “Willas Tyrell holds Highgarden, the Tyrells are not under threat nor would they be supported if they rebelled or attempted to seize the crown.”

Daenerys continued, “At this table are lords and ladies who represent the interests of Dorne, the North, the Riverlands, and the Westerlands, and we have the additional support of the Vale, the Stormlands, and the Crownlands. Under no circumstance will the military power of the Reach pose a threat to the combined forces of the rest of the realm.”

“Ser Jorah, please to see to it that Lady Olenna is called to court,” Jon commanded. “Be clear that she is welcome to bring a host if that would make her feel comfortable but that it is most urgent.”

“This meeting is adjourned,” Daenerys stated flatly, and she swiftly rose to leave, with Jon quick to follow, and Sansa suspected that he did not want to run after his wife in front of the small councilmembers. One by one, the other members of the council left the room, with Marwyn grabbing his reading materials piled in front of his designated seat while Ser Jorah shuffled his papers with the orders of the King and Queen documented on them.

“Good day, Lady Sansa,” Nymeria purred at her, and Sansa once again could not tell if the Dornishwoman was being kind or flirting with her.

The heavy oak doors of the small council chambers closed loudly, and Sansa was left alone with her husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Was the small council scene believable? Were there characterizations that you felt were off or something (if yes, then please give advice to help me improve! I'm realizing that characterization is something I desperately need to practice)?


	12. Sansa VII

Tyrion's fingers thrummed to a consistent beat against the oaken small council table. His eyes were fixed on Sansa, examining her like he did his books. But she was used to this. She had learned long ago how to hide herself from her husband, never giving any piece of herself to him. He was a Lannister, and he was not to be trusted—not even now. Every reason to distrust him due to his last name occurred over a decade ago, and had little to do with him. She knew he was not an enemy anymore.  _Not an enemy. Just a husband_.

"How are you today?" Tyrion inquired, and Sansa thought she sensed genuine interest on his part.

"I am well, my lord," she responded courteously, always using her lady's armor as a defense against her spouse. "And you?"

"Well," Tyrion began, and Sansa released a deep breath as she prepared herself for his condescension, "I began my day well enough: I woke up next to a beautiful woman, I had my usual fish, blackened bacon, and dark beer for breakfast, and then I received a briefing from my scout"— _Bronn_ —"concerning the situation in the Riverlands and the movements of my wife, among other things. All in all, a calm morning, to be sure."

Sansa blinked at the man, waiting for his revelation.

"Imagine my surprise when I come to the small council meeting to learn that my wife is plotting a religious takeover of the Riverlands and the woman who once conspired against me to murder my nephew, the king, will be joining that same small council, and she was recommended to the position by none other than my wife, who was also framed for regicide and even used as an unwitting pawn against me."

"Tyrion—"

"What could you have been thinking?" his voice was steady but the anger communicated clearly. " _That_ woman? Tyrell, Redwyne, Hightower—none of those names are worthy enough defenses for appointing her to the small council. Can you even imagine what will become of the small council meetings?"

"I imagine they will be very much the same—"

"She is not to be trusted and the rest of the council will know it."

"I believe they already know it," Sansa interjected.

"But Bronn and I are the only remnants of the time in King's Landing," Tyrion sighed, clearly exasperated at needing to explain everything. "No one else remembers what it was like to have such a strong Tyrell presence in King's Landing. It could be one of the biggest threats to the monarchy."

"The King and Queen have demonstrated strength time and time again," Sansa had to fight from rolling her eyes. "I think the Tyrells and Lady Olenna are strategic enough to know that now is not the time to advance. Willas is married and Desmera has already given him a son, Garlan won Brightwater Keep and thus the Tyrell cadet branch has been secured, and Margaery is—is married."  _She will likely become the Lady of Casterly Rock some day, lest Martyn dies before Tyrion_. Sansa did not dare to remind herself that Lady Margaery's young son Kevan will likely become the Warden of the West someday. "There is nothing for the Tyrells to seize. No monarchs for them to marry, no claims to protect—nothing."

"The Lord of Highgarden was stripped of the title of Warden of the South after the Targaryen Reclamation," countered Tyrion.

"Only because he refused to make peace with the Martells and accept the hand of—"

"One of the Sand Snakes?" Tyrion's further incredulity began to wear on Sansa. "Most men outside of Dorne would refuse such a prospect."

Sansa stared at her husband, choosing silence over words since he was could not interrupt her again. He had a habit of doing that, and she chose to counteract his transgression by being cold and quiet. Tyrion shifted uncomfortably as she stared at him.

"You cannot be serious that the Queen of Thorns will not use this to her advantage, or the advantage of House Tyrell," her husband remained steadfast.

"We need a new master of coin—"

"And there are plenty of other candid—"

"And none of them hold a candle to Lady Olenna's skills and intelligence."

Tyrion released an exaggerated "harrumph". " _I_ was once master of coin, with no qualifications for the position, and yet I was quite good at it."

Sansa sighed, "Your qualification was that you were the son of the wealthiest man in the Seven Kingdoms."

"And as I said then, **a lifetime of outrageous wealth hadn't taught me about managing it***."

"You and I both know that Olenna managed the Tyrells' finances when her son was the Lord of Highgarden. I would not be surprised if she continued to do so now that Willas has the seat."

Tyrion snickered as he reached for his goblet of wine. "For some reason, I doubt Mace or Alerie had the wits to know how to handle such matters."

Sansa had to fight a smile, which did not go unnoticed by her husband, though she knew her response was a mix of agreeing with him and a reminder that he struggled with his arrogance. He did not always seem so. There was a time when she believed him to be the best of the Lannisters, but a lifetime of being underestimated and derided by his peers certainly weighed on him. There were times when her husband reminded Sansa of her lover, though she knew they would both deny it. Both were westermen, both served Tywin Lannister for years, both were scarred by events beyond their control, and both were cast aside and mocked for their appearance. There were times when it was uncanny, and those moments made her shiver.

"What... _madness_ possessed you to recommended her?" Tyrion almost whispered, as though he were trying to engaged her in pillow talk.  _Foolish of him to try when I have never granted it to him before_. "That woman has not a care for either one of us."

"Politics is not about liking people or being liked." Sansa's voice sounded cold even to her ears. Tyrion sat back in his chair and gave her a look of either admiration or disappointment, perhaps some of both.

"Where did that wide-eyed little girl who came from the North to King's Landing go?" Tyrion asked, and the undercurrent of mockery and sadness rang through his tone.

"She became the mistress of whispers," Sansa sighed. "Or at least some version of her did. After all, Sansa Stark cannot be the mistress of whispers considering the status of her marriage."

Tyrion looked at Sansa with wide eyes before composing himself and again trying to read her.

"It was not my choice to remain married, Sansa," Tyrion sipped his wine casually. "Nor was it even my idea to wed in the first place."

 _The Hand of the King and the Queen, and_ he  _cannot procure an annulment_ , Sansa thought as she fought the urge to roll her eyes at her husband. "I suppose we were both wronged that day."

Tyrion sipped at his wine. "You first came to this city to become a queen. Instead, you are married to the Hand—"

"And I am still the mistress of whispers," Sansa snapped, "even if Alayne Stone holds the title."

Tyrion nodded at her in response, even if he could not understand what she was trying to tell him. She would not deign to be referred to as the wife of the Hand of the King and Queen. She was more than that, she knew, even when she doubted it.

Silence weighed on them once more. Sansa had discovered upon their return to the capitol that silence was yet another weapon she could use against her husband. Where courtesies were once her armor, quietness and the disquiet in prompted in Tyrion pleased her the same as it would a cat who was toying with a mouse. Not that Tyrion was innocent when it came to playing games with her.

"The red temples in the Riverlands?" Tyrion attempted to hide a smirk, though Sansa suspect the expression was more deliberate than he wanted it to appear. She wanted to wipe the smirk from his face as though it were a speck of dirt.

“And in the Westerlands,” Sansa said coolly. “I thought it only fair to offer up both the lands of my uncle and the lands of my husband to the followers of the Red God.”

The smile gradually disappeared from Tyrion’s face and the brief moment of self-consciousness flashed, prompting an unfamiliar feeling in Sansa, one she only felt when she returned to her rooms late at night.

“Religious tolerance is the best chance that the kingdoms have at maintaining the King and Queen’s Peace,” she offered. “After the War of the Five Kings, the Sparrows’ takeover of the Faith, the Targaryen Reclamation, _and_ the Long Night, that peace is more necessary than ever in retaining the power of the Targaryen dynasty. You and I both have an interest in keeping the royal family in power, and ensuring that that child in the Queen’s belly will inherit a secure realm.”

Tyrion’s lips pursed. “Maidenpool, Lannisport, Golden Tooth, Fairmarket, and the Twins. Those are awfully ambitious towns to build red temples in.”

“The ambition is only in number, not in whether or not they will be built.”

Her husband nodded at her, grim respect hidden in his face.

“All the same,” Tyrion said after a moment. “Five towns and cities, and you managed to forget the most important one.”

Sansa fought her initial instinct and maintained her cool exterior, never letting cracks in the stones show, not even to her husband.

“I assure you, that list is as exhaustive as it needs to be. In the future, we might add some, but until then, those five are enough.”

She turned from Tyrion and stared at the empty goblet on the table, the one she had been drinking during the small council meeting. It occurred to her that she drank more than she used to, not that she was or ever had been a heavy drinker. Yet her consumption of wine, even the sour red that Sandor once loved so much, had increased over the years. She found herself wanting a glass badly at that moment. Perhaps she needed it, or perhaps she sought a reward for so deftly handling her husband.

“Lannisport, Maidenpool, and Fairmarket, maybe, but Golden Tooth and the Twins?” Tyrion’s expression told her that he was still reasoning out what was happening right under her nose. There were times that Sansa wanted to pat herself on the back for her cleverness. _I was made for this_ , she thought proudly, before reminding herself that her purpose was far greater than polishing her pride. “The Twins, especially. You are dancing on the grave of Walder Frey with that one.”

The wine cup still the center of her sight, she felt her heart slow and her body grow colder as Tyrion’s words hit her. She moved her eyes to his but kept her body stone-still. With all of the weight of his word on her, she knew this was not a moment to storm out of the room, to leave him and his shame in her wake but rather the moment to make him suffer with her stone-cold presence and lady’s armor.

As soon as her eyes fell upon him, Tyrion knew his mistake, his regret plain to see on his face, but regret was not enough to take back the words.

“I apologize, my lady,” only a slight tone of shame colored his voice, but Sansa knew it took a great deal for Tyrion to register the feeling. He was not one who felt reproach very often. “I should not have said that.”

Sansa’s silence continued as though she were a sister of the Faith. Her commitment to punishment was as great as the queen’s. At a young age, she had learned from her mother how discipline could be used effectively, and she utilized this fully in her marriage, as unusual as it was.

Tyrion shifted in his seat, her quiet unsettling him once more. “Sansa, please say something. Anything.”

“Anything?” she questioned, wanting to make him regret more than his carelessness moments before. “Do you really wish to hear me say of the things that go on in my head?”

He lowered his eyes in response, and Sansa was certain he thought she would comment on his dwarfism or some of deficit for which his father made him feel unworthy of love. The little man in front of her was so predictable sometimes, even in all his brilliance and wit, that she always knew when he felt like this, when his own self-loathing and self-doubt became the center of his world.

“Perhaps we should not pull at that thread,” Tyrion stated, eyes still averted from her.

Sansa wanted to scream. _His self-pity just won’t do_.

“My lord, you think far too little of me, and you do so far too often,” Sansa lifted the veil of silence and allowed her husband to see something of her. “You are rarely in my head. In fact, you are often the furthest thing from it most of the time.”

Tyrion’s mismatched eyes flicked to hers, and though his face was solemn, he nodded slightly in response to her words. She suspected that they might bruise, but at least they would not cut him like his assumptions would.

“Some might wonder why a wife would keep thoughts of her husband so far away from her,” Tyrion said softly, again trying to engage her in what was almost pillowtalk, or as close as they had ever come to it. She supposed that they both suspected that the other knew better. “Especially when the husband is the Hand of the King and Queen, and the wife is the unofficial mistress of whispers. You may have a network of _little birds_ but you cannot prevent the rumors that run rampant through court as well as through Flea Bottom. Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and renowned whoremonger cannot bed his highborn wife who is as cold as ice.”

Sansa was quiet in response, thinking over a response to him, not knowing how to proceed for the moment. She knew full well of the rumors of their marriage, and there were as many about the bawdy acts that she had performed for the Imp as there were tales of their cold marriage bed.

“It is rather unlike you, husband, to concern yourself with the idle gossip of commoners and up-jumped courtiers. You never cared before, why start now?”

With all her networks and favors owed to her, her husband remained as inscrutable as that shield of hers, and it perturbed her all the same.

“We said vows in a sept, however empty we may have felt when we said them,” Tyrion took advantage of her silence this time. “We never consummated the marriage, and we have kept the marital bed empty as well. The least we could do is dine together as husbands and wives are known to do from time to time.”

“From time to time,” Sansa said, stifling her urge to laugh at his comment. “Perhaps we could arrange supper some time.”

“Why waste time arranging? Come to our solar tonight. I will arrange the food. I am well enough aware of your favorite dishes to know what to request in the kitchens.”

“Tonight?” Sansa interjected, attempting to mask her stress. She had already made a promise of where she would spend the evening, and she had every intention of keeping it. “My lord, tonight is far too short notice to request—”

“My dear Sansa, I insist,” Tyrion said with some degree of bravado peaking through, until his beady eyes settled on her. “Unless there is some reason you cannot attend dinner with your husband.”

This was the moment she had been waiting for, the question she knew he had been waiting to ask. He always hoped to catch her in a trap like this, with her admitting that she dined with men other than her husband. She could not know who would have heard her make plans with Sandor on her way to small council meeting, but she knew her husband would never be above spying on her. Although she had made it common practice for her to invite her handmaidens, swords, or others in service to her to dine with her, just as her father had done throughout her childhood in Winterfell, the favor she granted to her sworn shield could cause gossip that she could not afford to be spread. At the same time, she did not want the rumors to be sewn so she could continue as she had. She did not want to be parted from Sandor. _Not even to have dinner with my beloved husband_.

“My lord,” Sansa smiled, hoping that a small trace of venom was present, though not so much that Tyrion would be motivated to pursue his suspicion, “I would be pleased to dine with you tonight. I had made plans to dine with one of our faithful servants tonight, and I only feel guilty to reschedule.”

“Well, wh—”

“Nonetheless, I will cancel. Dinner with my seven-blessed husband shall not be missed.” And the thought of cancelling made her stomach turn.

“Sansa, you do not need to mock me with you overt courtesies. You know me better than that.”

Tyrion’s bluntness made her falter in her demeanor, and she was unsure what to say next. She had learned in the Vale, in her and Petyr’s numerous games of cyvasse that she was always in need of planning her next three steps. She had made it a habit to plan her next three responses anytime she conversed with someone. Where she had once relied on courtesies, now she relied on strategy, even when she knew that the goal was only to hurt rather than to advance or kill.

“I do know you, my lord,” Sansa relented, hoping a small white flag would be enough for the man, “and I apologize if I lay it on a bit thick. I am sure you know why I get nervous when talking with you.”

 _When in doubt, blame my own weaknesses._ Petyr had always told her to let her foes underestimate her, and to keep them guessing of her objectives. Tyrion could never know the full extent of her weaknesses, especially when it came to Sandor.

Tyrion nodded understandingly, although she guessed that suspicion was still growing in his mind. She would have to be careful tonight.

“It was neither of our choice to remain married,” Tyrion acknowledged that which she had long known.

“I suppose we should both be more sympathetic to the other, then,” she responded dutifully.

“Yes, we should.”

There they sat, husband and wife, looking at each other with mistrust and some form of mutual understanding in their eyes. All the same, the idea of dining with Tyrion that evening made Sansa nervous, knowing that she would have to be performing all evening rather than relaxing during a supper with Sandor. Even more, the idea of telling Sandor that her husband requested that she dine with him that evening would not be a pleasant conversation, not after the events of the past day.

“Alas, I should take my leave,” Tyrion announced. “I will send word to the kitchens about delivering supper to our rooms tonight. A simple meal, only a few courses, rest assured. Nothing grandiose, not for a married couple of over a decade.”

Tyrion hopped off of his small council seat, tipping the last of the wine from his goblet into his mouth before he turned. Waddling away from her, Sansa could tell from his walk that he was in pain, and must have already walked a great deal that morning.

“I’ll take care of the arrangements for dinner, while you let that shield of yours know that you must reschedule.”

“I suppose we both have our duties this morning,” Sansa remarked, wanting Tyrion to leave as soon as possible.

It was only after he left, after she had heard the door to the small council chambers close behind him that Sansa realized she had confirmed who she had planned to sup with that evening. Even worse, upon review of their conversation, Tyrion had guessed without any information Sandor was her planned guest. _How could you have been so foolish, you stupid little bird_ , she thought to herself. Anger bubbling inside of her like it had not done in years, Sansa stopped just short of screaming in the echoing chamber and she instead drew back her hand and slapped the wine goblets in front of both her and Tyrion’s seats across the small council table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *quote (paraphrased, partially, since I had to change the tense for the purposes of my story) from the episode of _Game of Thrones_ 3.03 "Walk of Punishment"


End file.
